


Someone Else's War

by jendavis



Series: A Fight Called You [3]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Bedside Vigils, Earth, Exposition Vomit, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Minor Character Death, No Good Choices, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Reunions, Road Trips, Separations, Side Mission, Slow Burn, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Unevenly Distributed Apocalypse, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2019-07-28 08:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 132,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16237814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: The war's been going on for so long that nobody knows who or why they're fighting.  It's claimed over two billion lives and destabilized several countries to the point of collapse.  How they'll convince anyone to give a damn about a settlement on the far end of the universe is anybody's guess, and a moot point if they can't even make it to the negotiating table.Daryl'd been right about one thing, though.  On Earth, you have to be a certain kind of bastard just to get by.  Getting what youwantis almost beside the point when hanging on to what you'vegotis so close to impossible.





	1. Chapter 1

_Wednesday, 10/01/2149, 18:50_

_Doubly Dutiful Soldiers Practice Cards Like Mad_ ," Paul thinks, running through it in his head and pressing his knee to the wall, giving Daryl room to turn around. 

_Desperately Stultified, Paul Does Create Lame Mnemonics_.

He doesn't know if using his own name is cheating, but it's the truest one he's come up with yet. But Daryl's already heading back to the door again, resetting everyone's clockwise order. 

_Dropping Secondary Priorities Can Lead to Mission Disasters._

There's nobody in here whose name begins with T, though, and the tone, when he thinks about it, is probably too damning to focus on. 

_God_ , he's bored. For hours, they've been sitting here- mostly in silence- having long since reached the point where the sound of each other's voices has become grating. 

Daryl's already reached the hatch again, he realizes, so Paul strikes one point from his mental scorecard and decides, yes, he can stop this stupid game now, it wasn't all that fun to begin with. 

_Don't Simply Pretend Computers Like Making Dumplings_ , his brain supplies, not particularly helpfully.

\--- 

"I just want to get fucking _going_ , already." 

Daryl doesn't break stride as he picks his way through the narrow walkway, only barely avoiding everyone's knees; more muscle memory than sight. He's been at it for a while, now, pacing from one end of the dimly-lit pressurization chamber to the other, then back again, as if he's expecting an open door or a window to suddenly appear. 

There are only six seats packed into the chamber, though it's still excruciatingly uncomfortable. Mostly, it's the heat. Despite Sasha's efforts not to press her arm against Paul's, the seven of them are packed in here shoulder to shoulder, and there's no room for the fans to do much good at all. If they hadn't spent an awkward forty minutes dodging feet and elbows as they'd clambered out of their sealsuits, shoving them awkwardly into the overhead compartments, each and every one of them would've passed out from heat exhaustion.

If there were windows in this thing, they'd probably be steamed up; the yellowed plastic signs overhead look like they're sweating. They are, Paul decides, unpleasant to look at, the type of old that wouldn't be bothered with during the course of basic maintenance, and he'd memorized them hours ago. One's an overly optimistic diagram assuring them that the seats recline, or would, if there were room. Next to it is the list of guidelines and rules: no smoking, hands off the hatch, no children allowed, which they're probably skirting the edges of breaking, having Carl here. The sign over the door had been scratched and scored so heavily that for all he can tell, it's always read _Welcome to Hell_. 

"Yeah," Mitch replies distractedly, barely looking up from the droning military channel he's got playing on the tablet the soldiers had left for them. Sasha'd watched the same thing when they'd first gotten in here, and it hadn't been any more illuminating or interesting then. 

"At least it's only a little while longer," Laura points out; of all of them, she seems the least miserable, or at least the most in control of her own boredom. She and Mitch have been through this several times before. "Used to be, they'd keep you in here for the full three days."

Daryl looks at her, then down at everyone's feet. "Why the change?" 

"Figured it wasn't really beneficial for most people. Once you're past the danger point, there's still cramps and all that, but you can ride them out in the fresh air as easily as in here. Easier, too, if you're able to walk around, stretch your legs."

Across the aisle, Carl's slumping out of his seat into a crouch on the floor, his forehead right up against Sasha's knees as he tries to stretch his back. When Daryl turns to see this, he frowns, then finally just stops, leaning against the sealed hatch door, arms tight against his chest. 

Sasha prods Carl with the toe of her boot, smiling down at him worriedly. "You doin' all right?"

"Fine," Carl grits out, then turns his head without lifting it to look at Paul with a pained smirk on his sweating face. "How about you?"

"Loving every second of it," he lies. Complaining about it is only going to make him focus on it more, and from the looks of it, Carl's having the roughest time of it. As it is, it feels like the moment he moves, his spine's going to pop out of place. He wants to shrug out from whatever's pressing down on him, take a deep breath of fresh air, but there's none to be had. 

Carl shakes his head at the used-to-be-cold bottle of water Sasha's offering him, then crawls up to a stand, stretching out in a jealousy-inducing move; he and Daryl gesture at each other for a moment before stepping around knees and feet to switch places. Daryl winds up sitting down in Carl's vacated seat. Their knees press together against the wall, trying to keep the aisle clear. "How long did it take you to start getting used to it?"

_Came Directly from Space,_ Paul's brain supplies, as he counts off everyone's positions instead of listening to Mitch's answer. _Please Don't Leave Meinhereanymore._

It doesn't fit, but he's lost track of his points anyway. And maybe he's spoken something into existence, because for the first time in six hours, there's noise on the other side of the door. Thuds and scrapes and a mechanic winch locking something into place. 

\--- 

The cold air blasts into the chamber like a firehose; the light is painfully blinding. Daryl ain't the only one who needs a minute to let his eyes adjust. Getting up, he brings up the tail end of their shuffling group as they step outside. 

There's no sky, no pavement, no ground. Not yet. Just another fuckin' causeway, accordioned plastic and tightly-pulled vinyl stretching out twenty or thirty yards, and hard plastic laid down to walk on. At least this one looks temporary, like it could gone at a moment's notice, leaving them with an unobstructed view of the planet they'd spent so damn long trying to reach. 

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust enough to see that there's someone standing in front of them in full quarantine gear. Coveralls, hood, mask, the works. They've got one hand on the barrel of their rifle, the other over the stock. When they shift enough that Daryl can see through the glare, it's a woman's face looking back at them. 

"Nice to finally meet you all, face to face," she says, taking a half step closer, giving Mitch a familiar smirk before nodding at the rest of them. "Like I said before, I'm Major Holden. Andrea, if that's easier to remember. Anyway, welcome to Earth."

"Thanks," Mitch says. They don't shake- probably on account of the gun or some other quarantine protocols Daryl should've been listening to, when she'd droned on about it a few hours ago over the comms- and Mitch makes introductions that she's probably only half listening to, scrutinizing them the way she is. 

When Carl takes a step sideways and nearly stumbles, it's the sign she's evidently been waitin' for. 

"All right. Everyone got your legs under you? Come this way. We'll get you settled into, have Siddiq check you over. The sooner you're cleared, the sooner we can all get back to normal around here."

Wondering what that must entail, he can feel the plastic give under his feet when he falls into step with the others. 

There's dirt under here, maybe even grass, but it seems farther away than it had when he'd been on the other side of the universe. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/01/2149, 21:00_

"Okay, you're good to go," Siddiq tells him, rolling his stool back and standing up. 

Paul blinks; he'd been staring at the side of his neck during the shots, because it had felt weird, staring him in the face. 

It's a nice face, but he can see so _much_ of it, even through the mask that the doctor's wearing, and _that's_ what's throwing him. Even with the shades down, feels like there's hardly any shadow at all in here; the sunlight filters in through the thin plastic walls, and it moves _constantly_. They're heading towards sunset, and still, even now, this room seems brighter than anywhere else he's ever been. It's not just this room, either; out through the open flap door, he can see yards and yards of tented hallway, all the way to where the corridor turns. 

He tugs his sleeve down over the bandaged injection site; the cuff is dug so tightly into his bicep that it's tough going. Getting out of the shower, his clothes had seemed too thick, too heavy, too _warm_. Now he's not sure they're enough. 

"You cold?"

He doesn't honestly know, so he shrugs. 

"Not used to the air, is all," he says, feeling stupid. Of course he's used to air. He's been breathing it his whole life. 

Just not like this. It burns at the back of his throat. 

"Don't worry, it's actually pretty normal. You'll acclimate soon enough- easy now," Siddiq reaches out to spot his descent from the examination table as the aches that he'd forgotten about during his shots reassert themselves. Paul manages to keep his footing. 

"It's going to take a few days," Siddiq continues, no hint of alarm in his voice; he's probably seen this all before. "The anaprox should be enough, but if the pain's enough that you can't sleep, we can give you something stronger, knock you out." 

"I'm good," he's more than ready to head back to the barracks. "That's it, right?"

"Yeah. You can head back now, just send, ah, Sasha in next. Also, you can raise the shades when you get back, if everyone's okay with it. Just remember to pull them if they're too much in the morning."

\--- 

It's slow, heavy progress towards the barracks he, Daryl, Carl, Sasha and Dwight have been assigned to. His legs and shoulder and neck are killing him, and his feet feel too heavy, like he's been awake for three days straight. 

The bunks, when he finally reaches the quarters they'd been assigned, are metal frames with fabric slung between them. They're a little wider and a little longer than what he's become accustomed to being on board the RV, and he's so relieved to finally be sitting down that it doesn't even occur to him that the room's practically empty.

"You all right?"

Dwight's stretched out on the bunk along the far wall, fidgeting with his pocketknife. In Paul's absence, someone'd dropped off the crates they'd all left in their quarters; his own is at the foot of his bunk, and on top of it, there's a box of rations.

He should be more curious about the contents- it's actual Earth food, even if Mitch had warned them it would be kitchen-closed garbage- but he doesn't much feel like eating so he leaves it there, for now. 

"Where is everyone?" He'd passed Sasha in the hallway; he hadn't seen anyone else, but it's like a maze in here and he hasn't mapped it out yet. 

"Daryl took Carl over to the showers, figure it'd help with the cramping. Should be back soon." Dwight sits up, stretching as he folds his lanky limbs to sit up. "Mitch has his own room; think he's meeting with the CO's or something. And they took Laura away."

"Already?"

"I dunno. Went out to hit the head, when I came back, she was being escorted down that way-" he points towards the corridor, not that it means anything to him yet. "Daryl said the commander showed up, looking serious, and she just stood up and went with them."

It feels anticlimactic. He'd known it was coming. It's not like he'd been expecting a spectacle, but... it just feels _wrong_. That it's happened already, or maybe just that it's happened at all. 

There's not much more he can say to that. "You get out, see anything yet?"

"Just the bathrooms. Got a weird hose thing for the showers."

"Huh." Paul rolls his shoulders. The anaprox isn't working yet- or hell, maybe, depressingly enough it _is_ \- and he opens his box; Dwight takes it as his cue to do the same. 

"Oh," Paul says, shaking his head as the thought catches up with him. "Doctor said we could open up the windows. Sun's low enough."

Dwight gets to his feet with an ease and speed that Paul couldn't hope to muster, lifting the shade before figuring it out and pulling down enough that the catch releases. It flutters up with a bang against the flimsy-looking frame. 

"It's darker than I thought it would be," Dwight frowns, a little disappointed, and there's something in his tone that leads Paul to believe that he's talking about more than just the view. "Fucking weird."

The sky looks orange and yellow gray; from this angle they could almost be back on the colony. Which is probably why Dwight doesn't give it more than a few seconds before returning to his cot and his food. 

Paul should stand up, walk over there. At least take a _look_. 

They'd come all this way, after all. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/01/2149, 21:18_

He ain't sure what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been this. 

The base is little more than a series of large tents attached to a central spine that turns at odd angles. From what he's seen so far, the frame's mostly piping, bolstered with slightly warped beams of scrounged wood. None of them feel like they're anchored too solidly into the ground. Along the walls, they've got stronger panels of corrugated plastic where more support's needed, and there are windows set into the tenting here and there, covered by velcro-edged shades that are apparently meant to protect their eyes from the sun's glare. There are no floor planks out here, the way they've done in the barracks, just thick rubber matting

The soldiers are clearly counting on their respirators to maintain the quarantine, because the structure sure as hell ain't airtight. If they'd brought anything airborne with them, apparently the locals aren't that worried about it getting out into the local populace. 

Which means there probably ain't none to speak of, wherever they are.

Still, even if he can't see anything but blue and white plastic, feeling the breeze against his skin as it cuts through the stultifying humidity is nice.

It's fucking odd, though, too. Standing here, loitering outside the showers, nodding now and again at the occasional masked soldiers walking by as they pretend not to stare. Nobody's said much to him, yet, which mostly suits him just fine, 'cause he ain't' figured out where to start, neither. But he keeps having this urge to point out _yeah, I'm from here_ whenever he sees one of them, just so they lose interest.

There ain't no place to lean, so he just paces back and forth, trying to shake off the muscle aches, and he waits. 

Carl's been in there a while, doctor's orders. They're all tired and sore, but the intergalactic jet lag had come down on him pretty hard and fast on account of his bein' born Colonyside. Apparently, him bein' so young- too young, technically, to make a trip like he'd done- is actually going to work in his favor as far as the recovery goes, at least in the long term. So far, it's been up and down. He'd puked all his guts out this afternoon, and even half an hour ago it had been impossible to tell if it was nerves or pain that was making him shake the way he'd been doing.

The masked, armed soldiers coming into the barracks and taking Laura away might've been a factor there. Or just the fact that the kid's just landed on what might as well be an alien planet. 

His insistence that Daryl didn't have to wait out here for him, that he could find his way back to the barracks on his own, had been halfhearted at best. 

So Daryl waits, bored out of his mind, and he checks in for what's probably the third time in five minutes. "You all right in there?"

"The water's not cutting off," Carl replies, sounding more awake than he had last time he'd checked. "Still hot and everything."

The shower probably ain't on a timer, even if they are wheeling the water out here in tanks. Then again, it falls from the sky, down here, so who fucking knows. Everyone bein' military, though, they probably all know to get in and out pretty quick. It probably ain't worth ticking them off by using up all the hot water. 

"It ain't infinite, though, so hurry up." He looks over his shoulder, down by the entrance to the corridor, a suited up soldier is giving him the thumbs up before continuing on their way. 

So far, it's the closest he's come to talking to anyone besides Andrea or the doctor. 

The water cuts off, so Daryl backs out into the corridor, letting the flap fall back behind him, and waits for him to get dressed. There's no sign of the soldier, but there are three branches of corridor that he can see from here. They could've gone anywhere. 

He's halfway towards the first one, figuring looking around the corner might do somethin' to fight off the itch to go exploring, when Carl comes out of the bathroom. 

"Hey."

"Yeah," he says, turning around. He'd gone further than he'd intended. "Right here."

"Which way is it?" Carl's holding himself up straighter, but he still looks wary, dirty clothes balled up in his arms. 

The barracks are down and to the left, though he almost wishes he weren't certain. Would be an excuse to go check things out a bit. 

But Carl needs to get back. Sooner he eats, the sooner they can give him the painkillers the doc had doled out for him. They're gonna be stuck here for days, sittin' around with their thumbs up their asses. 

Ain't like there won't be time. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/01/2149, 21:49_

Mitch is back from his meeting, or whatever, but more importantly, the powers that be have apparently finally decided that opening the shade over the room's one window will no longer cause anyone to have issues with the glare. 

"I'll put it down before I crash out," Sasha tells them, the moment Carl steps into the room, and he walks right past his bunk- and his meds- to stare. It's dark enough, though, that he's turning back after only a second. 

They've all seen enough of seeing nothing but their own reflections, but still, Daryl can't help cupping his hands around his eyes and looking out. 

He can see the rest of the tent complex snaking out ahead of him; most of it is illuminated from the lights strung across the support struts. Beyond that, trucks, most of them armored, and what he's pretty sure is a radio array, though it's smaller than he's used to seeing. There's grass, bracketed on either side by the lanes of a highway that he hasn't thought to ask about yet. There ain't as many stars as he's been used to seeing lately, but there's more than there'd been when he'd left Earth. 

Less light pollution. Fewer people. 

"Local brass is gonna want to talk to us in the morning," Mitch is saying, "but I wanted you all to hear all this from me, first. As of right now, we're slated to head off in few days. Now, during that time, your only orders are to rest up. You might not feel sore now- some of you already feel like hell- but it'll probably catch up to you in the morning. It's going to take time to acclimate, so don't push it, okay?"

Cleanly shaved, his uniform wrinkled but clean, he looks almost like a completely different person as he waits for their collective assent.

"There's a storm coming through tomorrow," he continues, once he has it, looking at Carl. "And this place isn't as strongly built as what you're used to. If you haven't been through one before, try not to worry too much. The reports of SA activity in the area is a bigger concern; there is a chance that we'll be taking our recovery on the road, so don't get too comfortable. They've already got preparations underway to move the RV onto a trailer, and we've got transport ready to go the minute we need it. As far as all that goes, the order won't be coming from me. I still need all of you to listen to it. Even if you think it's bullshit, all right?"

"Will do," Sasha confirms, Daryl and Dwight echoing her. Paul and Carl, the two of them looking like _Hell_ and _Hell, Jr._ , merely nod. But then Paul rallies, standing up and dragging his hair-still damp from the shower he'd taken earlier- out of his face. 

"What's going on with Laura?"

"She's still nearby. They're keeping her under guard until they can get the brig set up in the morning. It's merely a formality. Once that's done, she'll be allowed supervised visits." Mitch looks around the room. "Hey, I'm just telling you how it is, and I know how it's been. I'm just saying, if you want to talk to her, you can. It's not an order that you have to."

"So how's it all gonna work?" Daryl asks. "Getting her to Atlanta?"

"She'll be in our caravan, but isolated. When we reach Atlanta, she'll be jailed awaiting trial. So far, that's all I know." He shrugs, and a little of the _official_ shakes off of him. "Think we spun a few heads around with this one, they weren't ready to handle this kind of situation." He sighs, looking from Sasha to Paul. "On the bright side, Atlanta knows we're coming, and there's already been some chatter up the chain about the situation back home, so at least we won't be springing it on them out of nowhere. And everyone I've talked to here seems like they're wanting to offer assistance. I'm not getting the sense that we'll be walking into the senate to find out that they're unsympathetic. Doesn't mean shit so far as logistics go, but it's something, at least."

Paul winces as he bends to sit down again, and it takes him a minute to start rummaging through his crate for his tablet, like he's in any sort of shape to start working on the next steps right this minute. 

"Seriously?" Sasha rolls her eyes, walking over and grabbing it out of his hand. "Just. Save it for the morning and just go to fucking sleep already."

Mitch pulls a face, trying not to smirk, then nods towards the door. "Right on. Well. I'm down the hall and to the right, there's a sign on the door with my name if y'all need me."

Sasha smiles sleepily, getting back onto her bunk and kicking her feet up. Compared to what they've been used to, the beds down here are huge. "Rank has its privileges, huh?"

"Rank has quarters right next to the toilets," Mitch says ruefully, stepping into the corridor. "And the thinnest walls I've ever seen."

\--- 

_Thursday, 10/02/2149, 08:05_

"How're you all holding up?" Andrea asks, waiting in the doorway for everyone to pull their boots on. She's not wearing her mask any more, the medical team having completed their tests and finding no vectors of concern. "It's Paul, right?"

"Think I'm still breathing," he jokes, but it's too _bright_ in here; the sunlight stabs through the walls and ceiling enough that the shade being open doesn't make any difference at all. 

"You look like hell." She looks around the room, brow furrowing. "Like seriously, every single one of you. Anyone need the doctor?"

Dwight, Daryl and Sasha are moving more slowly and stiffly than usual, too, but they all shake their heads. Carl, he can't help jealously noting, seems to have bounced back completely. 

He needs to get up and moving. Maybe another ridiculously hot shower can do something against the bone-deep aches that have had all night to really set in. 

"All right, cool," Andrea says, once nobody opts for the doctor. "I'll get you down to what passes for a mess hall out here, introduce you to the rest of the crew. Apologies in advance, half of them are convinced you're reptilians."

"What's that?"

"Kind of alien," Carl states authoritatively, raising his eyebrows as he looks at Andrea. "Anyone have bets going?"

Andrea laughs. "Not that I'm aware of, but I wouldn't be surprised."

Their procession is shuffling down through corridors of corrugated plastic when Daryl, voice like gravel, asks, "Any chance we can get outside any time soon?"

"Right after breakfast, if you want." She turns to walk backwards. "It's actually pretty nice out here." 

There it is again, slapping him in the face: there's an _out here_ that Paul should probably be more aware of, more prepared to deal with. They've passed a few windows already with shades up, and he hasn't really managed to do more than glance at them in passing. 

So when they turn the corner, coming out of the corridor into an open area, he stumbles to a halt at just how _open_ it really is. 

There are six tables with benches, people sitting everywhere. The smell of cooking food is heavy and thick, nearly enough to turn his stomach. Or maybe it's the fact that overhead, there's nothing but the brightest blue sky he's ever seen. 

Amira's painting, back home on his wall, had nothing on this. 

Sasha's staring up at it too as she edges past. "Huh. Cloudy." 

"Supposed to get some rain this afternoon," Andrea agrees, completely unimpressed. It's not until Paul looks back at the room, sees all the posts every ten feet, that he realizes that there's clear plastic stretched across in a makeshift skylight, spanning the width of the room. 

And it might be stupid, but it _helps_ , knowing that it's there, even as thin as it appears to be. Everything here is thin and temporary. Even the walls had moved with the wind all night, as he'd tossed and turned, and what little attention he'd had for anything beyond trying to ease the strain in his back and shoulders had been spent reminding himself that they didn't need a membrane, down here. 

Going through a door without a suit and respirator isn't a death sentence. 

But still, standing here now, the sight of it is unnerving enough that the smell of cooking food- it's a _thick_ smell, almost but not quite familiar- isn't appealing in the least. He'd only managed the dried apple out of his rations last night, though, and apart from that, he hasn't eaten in over a day. Before he has time to convince himself that food will help, though, Andrea's waving them all into position in the middle of the room. They're the new people here, and there are over two dozen names that he's going to have to try to remember. 

But right overhead, there's the sky. Now that he's looked once, it's hard to stop. 

\--- 

Fuck every shitty thing Daryl's ever thought about Earth. The eggs might be the same powdered shit they sent up to the colony, but it's not six months old. There's actual _orange_ juice, pulp and all. There's fucking _bacon_. 

"Holy shit," Sasha's saying, chomping away happily. "I'd _forgotten_ -"

"Yeah," Dwight says, already on his third cup of coffee. 

"Is it seriously that good?" Andrea asks skeptically. Sitting to Daryl's right, she's been watching them with expressions of amusement bordering on horror, which she now turns to the next table over. "Hey Jim, you drug the food or something?"

"Too much plant protein makes a person go crazy," Dwight deadpans, underneath the laughter from the next table over, and Daryl smirks. He'd never given it much thought- food's food, after all- but there might be somethin' to the idea. 

To his left, Paul's picking at his plate, not quite so enthusiastic, and across from him, Carl's studying his bacon like it's something new and-

Right. 

It actually _is_ , for them. Down to the fucking orange juice, so feeling vaguely guilty, though he doesn't know why, he checks in. "You two doin' all right?"

"Yeah," Paul says, shrugging. "Just. Weird. Tastes okay but..."

"Texture's _weird_ ," Carl finishes, but he takes another bite with the expression of someone who's just on the verge of liking something. 

"You might want to go easy," Sasha suggests, glancing at Daryl like he's some sort of expert or some shit. "If you find that it's not sitting right, don't force yourself."

"Yeah, yeah," Carl rolls his eyes. 

A moment later, once everyone's gone back to her own breakfast, Paul slides his plate over to Daryl, shaking his head. "I can't. You finish it."

Shrugging, Daryl picks it up. Decides that it's a trade, and shoves the rest of his toast onto Paul's plate. It takes him a few minutes to get around to it, but eventually he starts eating. And he does go up for two more cups of coffee before Mitch even arrives, following a short dark-haired woman into the room. 

Most of the voices at the surrounding tables get a little bit quieter as the two head up to the counter for coffees of their own. It feels inevitable that they'd be standing at the head of their table a moment later. 

"Hey, everyone, I'd like to introduce Major Rosita Espinosa. She's the CO around here, and will be calling the shots during the convoy." 

She smiles, as Mitch introduces each of them by name; her handshake is firm, but her smile looks like she's got other things on her mind. 

"You gonna make a speech?" Guillermo jokes from two tables over. 

"Fuck you, Guillermo," she smirks, and it's only _then_ that the weird tension that's been filling the room since her arrival- he's only noticing it now- dissipates. 

"No speech, but welcome to Earth. I know there's a lot to get into, but Mitch has warned me about barraging you with bullshit right out of the gate." Her smile's a little easier than before, and around them, the other tables to back to their own conversations. "There are a few things I need you all to know, though. As soon as the doc clears it, and the trailer's complete, we'll be moving out and heading to Atlanta. You've probably already heard reports of SA in the area. If not, well, happy birthday, but just so you know, _in the area_ is not a major concern. The possibility that it could escalate into an actual _contact_ situation, however, is. You follow?" 

Sasha and Paul are nodding, so Daryl follows suit as the Major's eyes roam the table.

"All right, good. Now, I'm not looking to spook any of you, but in the event that they show up before we've packed out, you need to hear this. With the exception of Mitch, obviously, under no circumstances are you or your colleagues to pick up arms and try to play hero. I don't care what you got up to Colonyside. As far as we're concerned, you're untrained, and our teams aren't here to babysit civilians wandering into the line of fire. Is that understood?" 

Another round of nods. 

"They haven't managed to do more than nip at our heels like small dogs for quite some time, but if they manage to break through our perimeter, you all need to find cover and wait. We will come looking for you; follow our lead. If you're inside, stay low, avoiding any open windows, and head in here." She takes a step back to gesture at the trailer that's unfolded into the mess hall, serving as a field kitchen. "It's not fully armored, but metal's still better than the pipe and drape bullshit we've got going on everywhere else."

"What if we're outside?" Carl glances around the table nervously. "I mean- if we're-"

Major Espinosa grins, pointing at him. "Good question. If that's the case, you take cover anywhere you can. I've ordered that all of our trucks remain unlocked while we're at camp- you're not going to be able to operate the engines, but they're armored, safe as houses. The comms station on the north end of the camp is a secondary choice. It's well built, but would probably be their first target, so keep that in mind." She takes a breath, and smiles. "And please, for the love of god, don't go running into the woods unless you've got no other options. Mind the perimeter. The SA are guerrilla fighters who are used to all sorts of terrain, and I'm not sure all of you really know what that means yet. We will come find you, but you'll be endangering our people, and we're not really wild about that. Does that all make sense?"

"Yeah," Sasha says, speaking for the table. "Just out of curiosity, how often do they tend to show up?"

"It's honestly kind of surprising they haven't already. We're monitoring for them, though, and we're ready." She shrugs, and offers up another apologetic grin. "I'm not telling you all this to freak you out. I just want you to be on your toes." 

\--- 

_Thursday, 10/02/2149, 10:45_

"And now we're back where we started, you got all that?" Guillermo asks, not really waiting for an answer; he's friendly enough, but it's clear that playing tour guide isn't going to be the highlight of his day. The rifle, strapped over his shoulder with the ease of someone who's comfortable forgetting that it's there, makes that plain enough. "This is where you came in yesterday."

It looks a bit different, if only because they'd stripped off all the hardware necessary to make an airtight seal to the RV. But Paul doesn't realize what it _means_ until Guillermo, with no fanfare or warning, actually cranks the causeway hatch open.

Light and air and rush in too suddenly for him to process; Dwight's the first one to follow Guillermo out, then Sasha and Carl. Daryl, for all his barely-concealed agitation to get outside, actually hangs back. The fact that he's probably doing it because Paul's feet no longer seem to be capable of moving is not lost on him. 

Outside, Sasha's got her arms over her head; Carl's just standing still, head swiveling everywhere. They're both laughing. Daryl's hearing it too, but his voice is quiet. 

"You all right?"

"Yeah, I'm." _Fucking irritated_ , to be honest. He takes another step forward- the air is moving- just out of spite. "You go on ahead. I'll catch up."

"I'm good," Daryl says, walking easily alongside him, deadpanning, "You know, if the air outside was going to kill us, it would've happened the moment they-"

"I _know_." It comes out as more of a croak than he wants it to, but his chest is too tight. There might be a breeze here, but he's actually sweating. Insult to injury. 

But Daryl's got a point. Everyone's out there. Everyone's fine. 

He takes a breath that he hopes Daryl can't hear, and continues on. Seven more steps, and he's over the threshold, watching his feet land on something other than metal or plastic for the first time in six months. 

Another breath. When he looks up, he doesn't know where to start. The others are already spreading out along the wide stretch of grass. It's framed on either side by twin landing strips, each painted with white and yellow lines; The RV's back and off to his left, surrounded already by unfamiliar trucks and equipment. 

Beyond that, though, it's just the ground, the trees, and then the _sky_ , which is painfully bright, though that doesn't stop Daryl from planting his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets, and rocking back to squint up at it. 

The fact that Paul's already registered the lack of a membrane doesn't stop the wave of vertigo that swoops through him when tries doing the same, so he drops his eyes, focuses on the trees lining the area instead. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of them, green and yellow clashing so tightly together he can't tell where one stops and the next begins. 

There's rustling at his back; he turns, and only has enough time to register the sensation of his hair blowing out of his face when the air suddenly becomes _solid_ , shoving him back and punching into his throat, choking him. 

It doesn't abate, it doesn't stop- there's grit in his eyes and he can't close his mouth and he can't _breathe_ \- it just keeps _happening_.

_Five years in school calculating air pressure variances for every possible engineering situation, and this is how I die_ , is what he's thinking, instead of just catching on to the instinct that's been screaming at him to just lower his head. 

It helps, once he manages it. He can still feel the wind carving into his ears, but _sound_ is returning. Mostly it's the sound of the blood rushing through his head, but there's startled shouts, more laughter. He rubs at his eyes, even once he's pretty sure the grit's out, because he can see Daryl watching him, and it's not his finest moment. 

One breath, then two. 

His skin's still prickling.

"Fuckin' windy, huh?" Daryl's feet step into his field of vision; blocking the worst of it enough so he can finally straighten his neck. 

"Guess so," he says, like this is something he sees every day, when he's blindsided _again_.

Daryl looks different, and maybe it would help if his eyes would stop watering, but the _light's_ different, like he can almost catch its movement. Inside the tent, everything'd had the same solid bluish tinge. On the RV everything had been washed out, silvery and thin compared to the warm muted tones of the Colony. Now Daryl looks unshadowed and _solid_ and-

-it's easier to stand with the wind at his back, even with his hair whipping in his face, so he scans the twin lines of the landing strips to where they curve to disappear behind the comms station's radio tower. He's pretty sure that's Mitch, talking to the soldiers in the doorway. Past that point, too far away to see in any detail- _that_ , over there- must be the city. 

He can't see any people. Wouldn't, he supposes, from this distance. 

"Is that Macon?" He thinks has to shout over the wind; Daryl's response, proves otherwise. 

"Up the road? Guess so, what's left of it, anyway."

"Come on!" Up ahead, Carl's shouting at them, waving his arms on landing strip, urging them to catch up. 

"Yeah, yeah," Daryl calls back, starting to walk, eyes darting back and forth up and down the road as if he's expecting to see something more than just pavement.

Even with the wind shoving him forward, Paul's feet still feel heavy, like they'd plant themselves in the grass and take root, given half a chance. 

"You good?" 

"Yeah."

One step, then another. The terrain swells gently, but his footing is even. They're not in any danger. 

He's just having a hard time believing it. 

"Clouds're comin' in," Daryl says, conversationally, once he catches up. "All this wind, storm'll probably hit this afternoon."

Paul has no reason to disagree with him, though he wonders if the the thin, rippling clouds overhead could really be that threatening. "How long until it gets here?"

"No idea," he says. "C'mon."

They walk up the road, which turns into a bridge, though Paul's too focused on the wind to notice the river until he's propping his elbows next to Sasha's on the concrete barrier. 

Forty feet down, The water's brown, nearly green, and fast moving. The surface of it scatters sunlight everywhere and cuts the reflected sky into shards. Clumps of fallen branches and leaves snag on the riverbank rocks, trapping startlingly white foam in their tangles. 

The smell reminds him of the composter units back home, but thicker, more acrid. He doesn't know if it's a good smell or not- Carl and Daryl are debating that fact themselves- but in between the gusts of wind, it's staggering. Rich enough that he can taste it at the back of his throat, even underneath the tang of blood. 

He's not sure when he'd bitten his tongue; tracking sensations down here is tough. 

On the riverbanks, there are longer grasses matted together, sticks that he hears Sasha describe to Carl as _bleached out_ because the Earth's sun is _that strong_. Small green shoots poke up here and there, giving way to thick bunches of plants he can't identify. They're just _growing_ there, untended. 

There's debris, too, scattered everywhere. Cracked plastic and rusted metal, wads of rotten fabric, wisps of paper, maybe, flittering in the wind like maybe they're about to break apart. Under the canopy of the trees, the colorful scraps are the only thing he can clearly make out. 

That, and movement. The plants are all shifting with the wind, twitching and bending and the sight of it makes him nervous, like there's a crowd of people down there that he should be able to see, like something's _happening_ and he'd see it, if he just knew where to look. 

This is Earth. His parents came from miles away from here. All he remembers is a name, Chicago, spelled out in block letters on a map, turning into a jumbled warren of lines and squares when he'd zoomed in. And somewhere on that grid, there might've bee a view like this. 

Genetically, this is where he's from. 

He's just not certain that he _likes_ it.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thursday, 10/02/2149, 12:48_

Even with the armed soldiers dotted every so often around the perimeter, It's nice, being outside- _really_ outside- with the plant smells and the heavy air and weird oppressive freedom of it all. But as glad as Daryl is to finally stretch his legs properly, it's not as distracting as he'd counted on it being. Carl's starting to flag, too. Everyone else had retreated over an hour ago. 

Paul had been the first, heading towards the tents with a sudden determination he shouldn't have been able to manage; he'd been so surprised by it that by the time it occurred to him to follow, Sasha'd already been going after him, telling him she'll take care of it. 

He'd been pissed at her for a while, there, and then himself, but it's evened out into a low irritated thrum that he's been trying to ignore. 

He'll check on him when he gets back. Probably just needs to rest, is all. 

"How're you holdin' up?" He asks Carl, guiltily aware of the pattern that's emerged over the last hour, this whole thinking and not thinking about Paul, trying to figure out how much concern is appropriate for him and Carl both. "You hungry at all?"

"The walking's helped," Carl cuts himself off, squinting up ahead.

The comms station is a repurposed power station about fifty yards north of the main complex, on a slight rise by the side of the abandoned highway. Even though it's probably the only non-temporary structure out here, there are at least three guards stationed on the station at all times, not only because it's a prime SA target, but because of Laura; that's where they'd put the brig. 

Mitch has been spending most of his time there, on the radio with Atlanta and DC and who knows what, really. But as curious as he is about what exactly is going on in there, he ain't all that eager to wind up in a situation where he'll be asked if he wants to stop by Laura's cell for a quick visit. And since Carl hasn't brought it up either, they've been giving it a wide berth. But now, Mitch is striding towards them on an intercept trajectory.

He wants Daryl's opinion on the trailer construction, despite the fact that Daryl's never built one and has no real opinion to speak of. But they've been wandering aimlessly for nearly two hours, now, and even Carl seems satisfied that they've exhausted the available scenery. They follow Mitch back down around the tent complex to give it a closer look. 

They'd already managed to get the RV up on the flatbed, but the wheels are dangerously close to the edges, and the whole thing is precarious and unsupported. The only thing keeping it in place is its weight; it'll need a frame to hold it in place once they get moving. This, they've already started some kind of work on; a few yards off, there's a second flatbed trailer that's being stripped for parts. 

From what Daryl can tell, underneath all the noise of generators and saws on metal, it's going to take the crew another few days to get it anywhere near roadworthy, though it looks like they're being serious about the under-wing support they're constructing. 

Honestly, though, given the relative scales of engineering, they might as well be putting roller skates on a rocket.

"Think it's going to work?"

"Fucked if I know," Daryl admits, once he's had a few minutes to poke around, nodding here and there at the wary looking soldiers who look ready to defend their progress loudly if he bitches too much; he's pretty sure this must be how the engineers from Admin felt whenever they had to go over to the Techniki side. "You got a copy of the schematics?"

"There aren't any," Mitch admits, more tensely than Daryl'd been expecting. "Nothing official, anyway, they didn't even know where to find the records. They're working from scratch, here. Didn't know what they were looking at until we landed."

_Shit._

At this exact moment, the RV could be the only ship on the planet capable of getting back to the Colony, and they're going to be hauling it cross-country on a monstrosity of field-welded semi trailers and best guesses. 

_Figures._

"Want me to go grab Dwight, get him in on it?"

Mitch sighs, mulling it over. "Yeah, might not be a bad idea. Paul too, if he's up for it. I mean, what we've got is what we've got, but a second set of eyes..."

Daryl nods, gesturing at Carl, but they've both been there when random Admin come 'round, tellin' everyone to hold up and wait for updated orders. And Mitch might be NATOPS, but he ain't a local. The least they can do is get their ducks in a row before fuckin' up everyone's plans, as vague as they are.

The clouds are coming in, though. Odds are good, they'd be packing it in for the day anyhow. 

\--- 

_Thursday, 10/02/2149, 13:50_

He thinks it's getting worse.

Paul had stuck it out for a while, outside, and he'd been _fine_ , for a while, but he'd turned away from the bridge, looking towards the complex, and the view hadn't stopped a hundred yards away, it had just kept going. There'd been so fucking _much_ of it that he'd suddenly just needed to _not see any more_. 

He'd panicked, skin prickling as he'd gasped for air, and he'd retreated, and everyone had seen it. He'd heard Daryl calling after him but had been relieved when he hadn't followed. Sasha had, though. She'd set Siddiq on him before he'd even made it back to his bunk. 

The doctor had barraged him with the same questions as yesterday, only a little more pointed, now. A little more concerned. 

Was he feeling worse than he was yesterday. How many hours of exercise had he gotten on the RV, or back on the Colony. Did he have a history of drug use. Did his family have a history of bone disease. Had he eaten anything today.

"You're still well within the standard recovery period, which might not seem like good news, but that just means that things at least shouldn't be getting any worse. Shower's still the best thing for it, at least temporarily," Siddiq had said, handing him another dose of anaprox and making a note on his tablet. "If you go that route, though, I want to wait until you're out, fed, and cooled off before we give you anything stronger."

While the thought of eating hadn't been an appealing one, another hot shower had taken the edge off, though he's not certain that he'd managed to dry off fully before collapsing- finally- back into his bunk. 

The air is thick and wet, or maybe it's just his skin that feels clammy. And his back's still tight, his joints are still sore.

And worse, all around him, he can hear the rest of the camp going about their business. Voices coming through the walls at odd angles, calling back and forth about dinner, laughing at jokes that Paul doesn't quite catch. 

The construction noises from outside had slowed down a while ago; after that, there'd been more serious conversations, too, about securing the complex and squaring away the gear. Dwight and Daryl had stopped in and had started to ask him something, but then they'd exchanged a resigned look, apologized for waking him and left again. As if he's been able to sleep more than five consecutive moments since they landed. 

He knows should be up, making himself useful somewhere, or at least laying some groundwork with Andrea and Rosita. They might not have the kind of authority the colony needs, but they're intermediaries with the powers that be, and as far as first impressions go, it's not likely that they've made much of one so far. Him more than anyone. Right now, he's lying around, draining their resources, offering nothing in return, and turning them into sitting ducks for the SA. 

_It's fine,_ Sasha's been on repeat in his head ever since handing him off to Siddiq. _Rest up. We've got this._

It's not patronizing if it's true, but he's so fucking sick of remembering it that the irritation's suddenly enough to send him jumping out of bed, intent on just powering through the misery. 

He sits down, carefully, when the fresh wave of nausea hits.

Breathing deep, he squeezes his eyes shut and waits it out. By the time he's gotten it under control, what little momentum he'd had is all tapped out. The room dips, for a second, when he opens his eyes, and he doesn't have the energy to fight it off. Even the process of lying down seems like too much, for a while, but eventually he manages to slump down onto his side. 

He'll rest a while, muster up the energy to take another shower. Maybe he'll talk to Siddiq, too, and see about those painkillers. 

His wishes have gotten smaller over the course of the day; right now, all he wants is to exchange this cot in the middle of the barracks for his tiny RV bunk. At least there, he thinks, he could press his back against the wall, drive into it until the muscles along his spine finally relaxed. That would be something, at least. 

 

\---

_Thursday, 10/02/2149, 14:40_

He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, here.

Next to him at the table, Dwight's bent over his tablet, talking with Axel about the weight distribution as they figure out where the trailer's going to need to provide the most support. With his chin-length hair and trimmed beard, Axel looks an easier-living version of Dwight, but that ends at the eyes. They're sharp and skeptical, and clearly not ready to go all in on the advice of aliens like them, but they ain't nervous, either. He looks like he's got somethin' to prove.

He's been making sketches of the trailer on paper, drawing the lines with the practiced ease of a high school shop teacher. How either of them are managing to stay so focused with all the weather outside, it's hard to say. 

Until they get back to talking about the welds, there ain't much for Daryl to add to the conversation, so he's free to listen to the wind and the rain and to think too hard about how weird it would be to reach adulthood without ever having felt either.

Storms outside the membrane were never anything like this- and this one isn't even a _bad_ one. The Colony'd been designed to withstand wind and the blown dirt. Sure, there'd be hell to clean out of the filters and C02 afterwards, but nobody inside would feel so much as a drop in pressure, much less the full force of anything.

Here, it's different, even though the storm hasn't even started yet. The wind had come to an ominous stop a little while ago, and the air feels charged, like it's just waiting to go off. Every sound from outside snags on his attention, as if the rattling of a ceiling joist or the sound of a door flap falling shut is meant to announce that it's here, that the storm's finally starting, if he wants to get out somewhere to watch. 

On the other side of the mess, Andrea is talking quietly with Sasha and Carl. They women look like they've got headache's brewing; Carl just looks impatient. 

_Right there with ya, kid_. 

He turns back to look at the sketches Axel's drawn up, realizing that with the angle they're at and the way Axel's looking at him, he should probably be responding to whatever it was that he'd just said.

"What was that?"

"The wings," he says, with a warning hint of impatience in his tone. "What's the internal support there?"

"They held up at several times the speed of light," Daryl shrugs, though really, they hadn't had much by way of vertical forces until they'd gone down for the landing. "Bumpy roads shouldn't be too rough, but should probably prop it up at least three quarters of the way out."

"Gets us around the mechanicals," Dwight nods in quick, puzzled agreement, like he's just catching on to the testing that's going on, here. "Everything past that is an easy fix, when it comes down to it."

It ain't just that they aren't sharing all the same assumptions regarding how things work down here, though that's clearly part of it. There's a rank and file, and the two of them coming in like this is unsettling it. There'd been another guy- Tomas or Thomas or something- who'd stalked off the moment Mitch had announced the trailer build had become a joint effort. At least Axel's still trying.

For the third time in as many minutes, he has to fight the urge to go see if there's any hope of Paul coming out to stop any more feathers from getting ruffled, because Axel's looking pissed over a few inches of metal. 

Or really, maybe Daryl just wants to go see if he's doing any better. Escaping this this posturing Earther bullshit would just be a bonus. 

\--- 

_Thursday, 10/02/2149, 14:51_

The light changes quickly here. The shade's been rolled up and strapped into place above the translucent window plastic, and beyond it, the sky's gone from blue to dark gray and the thin shreds of clouds from earlier have bulked up into sprawling, huge monstrosities. 

Paul shifts again, trying in vain to find a comfortable position; his foot's hanging off the side of the cot, stretching his leg out, but the air streaming in through the gaps between the floor and the walls is chilled and damp. The blanket he'd been issued is both too thin and too dense, and he's already too cold for it to be doing him much good anyway- all it's really doing is trapping his sweat against his skin. 

A freezing gust of wind startles him as it cuts through the gaps in the walls, but it's gone as quickly as it came and everything goes still. Paul closes his eyes, focusing on each joint as he wills them to relax, and thinks, maybe, that he's getting there, when the air _snaps_ and the there's a purple-white _flash_ outside his eyelids. 

The sky's gone green, he has time to realize, before the ground _shakes_ under the booming explosion of thunder, and he's just adding it all up to mean _storm_ when the rampaging noise charges at him from the far end of the complex. 

The instinct to curl up and bury his face in his arms is not one that he'd known he'd had, until now. The outer wall begins thrashing back and forth so violently that they'll probably be whipped away any minute; the noise of the wind cutting through the complex is so loud that he's not sure when the rain starts, but soon it's _there_ drumming down on the slanted tent roof like a thousand drums, all building up to a confusing roar that feels like he's hurtling towards Earth all over again. 

He's too wrung out to be scared, he's just frozen. Waiting. 

"You alright?"

He's not sure how to respond, though he wishes he'd had some warning. 

Daryl's standing in the doorway, frowning out the window. Wary, but not sounding panicked. Which means there's no reason for Paul to be, either, even when the lightning cracks again. 

Flinching is just instinct. 

Daryl's dragging a crate over to the cot and sits down next to him. If he'd noticed how sharply Paul's limbs had retracted, he's not pointing it out. He is, however, holding out a bottle of water and a packet of pills. "Siddiq said you might want this. Should help you-" there's another crack of lightning, the ground not shaking so much this time- "sleep."

Paul actually laughs at Daryl's eyeroll, and forces himself to sit up; it helps his shoulders, but his hips don't like it. Taking the pills off of him, he throws them back, chasing them down with the water strange-tasting water. 

"Where is everyone?"

"Waiting it out in the mess." He scratches his jaw, looks again out the window. Now that Paul's sitting up, he can feel the cold flecks of water misting through air, so he drags the blanket up over his shoulders and wraps the corners tightly over his knuckles. "Carl and Sasha were gonna watch from from the hatch, if you wanna come take a look." 

He can see plenty from here, if he cares to, and it doesn't require getting up and trudging down the corridor under everyone's watchful eyes. 

"Maybe next time," he says. "Don't gotta hang here on account of me."

There's just a beat before Daryl replies, it's enough to alert Paul to the fact that his prevarication's been noted. "Seen one, you've seen 'em all." 

"Aren't you _freezing_?" Paul grumbles, changing the subject..

"Kinda." He rubs his arm for emphasis, but he's grinning, like it's not bothering him all that much, and this at least is genuine. "Better than no weather at all."

"If you say so." He rolls his shoulders, trying to loosen them. Hoping against hope that it comes off like an unconcerned, _everything's fine_ , shrug. "Should probably go take another shower."

"Sure, if you want to pass out and electrocute yourself."

Another crack of thunder shakes the sky; Paul thinks he was blinking when the lightning hit. "What was that you were saying earlier?" he asks, trying to distract himself. "About the trailer?"

Daryl shakes his head. "Could use a second set of eyes on the design, but it can wait. They called it for the day on account of the rain."

"How long's it supposed to last?"

"Dunno, hour or so, maybe?"

Paul sighs. The meds are supposed to knock him out, but he's not sleeping yet; it would be nice to accomplish something before giving up entirely.

There are hands on his shoulders, keeping him from standing up. 

"Don't worry about it," Daryl says. "Everything's soaked. Dwight's talkin' with everyone, drawin' up the first draft. But like I said, got time before we need an engineers eyes on it."

"So what the fuck am I even doing here?"

He doesn't mean to say it out loud, and not like _that_ , but Daryl's already heard him, he's already letting go.

\--- 

_Thursday, 10/02/2149, 15:07_

"Don't-" Daryl's mouth the driest thing in the room as he sits up a little straighter. "Doc said It was gonna take a few days. Only thing you're supposed to be doin' is restin' up." 

He should've come sooner, though he doesn't know what it would've helped. Between getting hit with a low-pressure front before he'd had time to acclimate and whatever else he's got going on, Paul would probably still be sittin' here all strung out, sweating and thin-skinned. 

But maybe, if he hadn't been stuck here ridin' it out alone, that bitter edge in his voice wouldn't be there. Maybe he wouldn't be lookin' at Daryl and his peace-offering pills like he's decided he's comin' in a day late and a dollar short. 

He'd just figured on havin' a little more time to figure out how to be around him down here, is all. How much of a damn he's supposed to give, down here. 

Down here, _ha_. Like he'd had it nailed down _up there_.

"Can't sleep." Paul drags his sleeve over his eyes, and for a worrying second, it looks like he's about to fight himself up to stand. 

Turns out that watching him list to the side and curl up again just feels like defeat. 

Daryl ain't sure if Paul's shivering or just shuddering, and he ain't sure which is worse. It would help, maybe, if he wasn't mostly lying on top of his blanket. But now that he's folded himself into a pile of cramping limbs on the edge of the bunk, moving doesn't look like it's an option he's seriously considering. 

Rolling down the shade won't do much- the window plastic's already sealed to the walls and the seam is holding- but it's the illusion of a barrier, at least. "Want me to close the window?" 

The shrug he gets in return is so jerky he imagines Paul's shoulder blade shattering under the stress. 

"Gotta get used to this fucking planet sometime," he says, his words punctuated by another flash of lightning, and Daryl can count off nearly a mile before the thunder rolls out. By the time he's done that, he's figured that no good will come of chasing down _that_ particular conversational path. 

Brushing his hands on his knees, he stands up, walks around to his own bunk to drag the blanket off of it. It's a little damp on the corner closest to the outer wall, but it's better than nothing. 

"Well, shit, at least try getting _under_ the blanket, then." 

Draping it over him, Daryl doesn't even touch Paul, but he can feel the chill coming off of his skin through his thermals and coveralls. It goes straight up Daryl's arm and settles into his stomach like worry.

The storm's worked itself up into a full gale, now; the entire wall of the barracks is bowing with the wind as the rain washes against the thin plastic window like it would pour through, given the chance. After months surrounded by solid metal, it's hypnotic to watch.

Lightning strikes outside, once, then twice, and a moment later, thunder shakes the sky and the scent of ozone permeating the air gives way to wet earth.

"Think it's already starting to move out," Daryl says, though the wind hasn't receded and the rain shows no signs of letting up. If Paul wants to call bullshit on him, make any kind of argument at all, he'd welcome it, but it's hard to tell if he's even heard him. Eyes and mouth clenched shut, Paul's managed to drag the blanket over his shoulder. Given how freezing he'd been, it seems to be of little use.

"Sorry," Paul mutters, and there's that tone again, the _I don't want to be a hassle, but I don't think this'll help_ , and Daryl's no more certain how to deal with it now than he had been when Carl'd used it by the showers yesterday. 

"Don't gotta be." It ain't right, him apologizing for shit he can't control. 

It's worse though, standing here wanting and _knowing_ how to help, and not doing anything about it. It's just- 

-it's just _not that big a deal_ , he realizes. It doesn't have to be, anyway.

"Still cold?" 

Paul huffs out an annoyed sigh. "Yeah."

And shit, it ain't like the barracks door ain't nothin' more than scraps of plastic. Anyone could come in and see. 

Fuck 'em, though. 

The crew knows what they know, and it ain't been any kind of problem. As far as the Earthers go, well. He ain't one of them any more. Hasn't been, not for a long time, now. 

He just doesn't know what this is gonna mean. 

But fuck that, too, he decides. It don't have to mean anything. 

Though it don't mean his throat ain't closin' up when he tells Paul to move.

"Huh?" Paul's looking at him him over his shoulder, now, but he's not meeting his eyes. From here, Daryl can see his throat move as he swallows. 

"Shove over," he says, waving him forward, not that he's taking up all that much space in the first place. 

Paul shifts- not moving, really, but it's sign enough that he's on board with this, and Daryl sits down behind him, carefully swinging his legs up onto the cot and rolling onto his side, his front to Paul's back. 

"You don't have to," Paul starts to say, though it's not a complaint; he's easing back against him already. "Thanks."

"Shut up," Daryl says, shifting his right shoulder and then, hesitating, draping his left hand over Paul's side. There's hair in his face and every point of contact is cold.

"Sorry about this, I know there's work to do." Paul can't see his face, but he's aware enough, apparently, decide that it's his job to apologize for the awkwardness. "Here." He lifts his head from the sweat-damp pillow, and it takes Daryl more time than it should to un-wedge his arm and slide it underneath his neck. 

"Got a few hours before anyone's gotta be thinking about anything." Casual as he's trying to make them, the words feel tight. But Paul's already settling in, and it's a little stupid, now, trying to fight it.

The shivers gradually start to subside, but even so, it takes a while for either of them to really start to relax. It happens in increments, muscles twitching now and again as they give in to gravity. It's a unique thing, becoming aware of aches and pains only as they're leaving, though maybe not so unusual as the smug grin Daryl catches himself tryin' to tamp down. 

The storm definitely _is_ moving on, now, and the rain's slowing to a steady drizzle beating down on the wall and ceiling. It's making him drowsy, but he doesn't want to sleep. Doesn't want to miss any of this. 

"Why you think it's hittin' you so hard?"

"Genetics, bad supplements when I was a kid, the gravity, the storm, take your pick." Paul's laughter is silent, but he feels it between his arms and against his chest. "Maybe it's just bad air."

"You ain't so evolved that you can't breathe the _air_ down here, man."

"No, I'm pretty sure that's it. Your planet's horrible, and I now understand why everyone left."

"Ain't my planet," Daryl stifles a yawn that comes out of nowhere. He ain't really sure when Paul's hand snaked out of the blankets to rest on his, but he ain't complaining. It's just _nice_ , their fingers twined together like this. Easier than he thought it would be. "Sooner you get rested up, the sooner we can leave."


	3. Chapter 3

_Friday, 10/03/2149, 08:01_

Paul arches his back and stretches his arms over his head; it's one of the most satisfying sensations he's felt in his entire life. But then Carl's word's set in. "What do you mean, it's _Friday?_ " Paul looks from Carl to Dwight and back again. 

"It's eight in the morning." Carl smirks, wedging his towel over the support to dry, and making his way towards the door. "You've been asleep for at least twelve hours."

That would explain the sunlight blazing through the window, and the hunger gnawing at his stomach. 

"More like fourteen," Dwight adds, burying his smirk in his coffee mug, and _that_ tells him everything he needs to know about what he'd missed. He really doesn't need Carl's badly smothered giggles painting any clearer a picture. 

He wonders when Daryl'd woken up, and what he'd woken up _to_. Hopefully not these two idiots. 

When he stands up, there's no nausea or anything. He's still sore, true, but it's nowhere near as bad as it had been yesterday. Though as soon as Carl's done, he really, _really_ needs a shower. 

"Daryl's out with Sasha," Dwight tells him, setting his mug down to pull back his hair. "They were gonna take another look at the ship, stretch their legs a bit. Kitchen's still open if you feel like eatin' something."

"Need to grab a shower first, Meet you over there after?"

\--- 

The razor in his kit is immediately deemed too dull to use, but he can at least trim up the mess that's overtaking his face. For as alright as he'd felt waking up this morning, the brushed teeth, the shower and the sensation of finally being able to work his fingers through the tangles and knots at the base of his neck, he starts back towards the barracks feeling like an entirely different person. 

This person, apparently, doesn't know where the hell he's going. 

Rounding the corner just as he's starting to register it's unfamiliarity, he comes across an opening into the the barracks where the soldiers are bunking. There's only one in there that he can see, a brown skinned woman with cornrow braids; he doesn't think he's met her yet, though given the smirk on her face, she clearly recognizes him.

"You all right?" The concerned smile she gives him over her stripped-down rifle is jarring, though she clearly doesn't register it the way he's doing.

"Yeah, sorry. Just. Went the wrong way."

She smirks, going back to running a brush down through the barrel of her gun. "Was worse, the first days out. We actually went through and moved two whole arms of the complex, people were getting so turned around."

"How long've you been here?" These barracks here are clearly more lived in, with pictures sealed to the tent walls or wedged into convenient crevices. They've made good use, too, of the sturdier support beams, hanging clothing, towels and sheets everywhere, either to dry, or to give the illusion of rooms. 

"Hmm, eight days, now? Had this whole place set up inside of four hours, not counting the redesign."

It's a weird way to live, and he's curious, but he doesn't know if asking about it is the way to go, here, so he just nods. "How long does it take to take it all apart?"

"About the same," she shrugs. "Folding it all up is kind of a bitch."

"Let us know if you want any help with that," he says, earning a pleased nod. "And oh, yeah, sorry. What's your name again?"

"Bertie. And you're Paul something, right?"

"Rovia." 

"Colony Administration, right? Gotta say, good to see you've rejoined the land of the living. You had a lot of people worried." 

She's being nice about it, but he can guess at her perspective. With all their concerns about moving out quickly, of course they'd be aware of the dead weight he might've been. 

"Thanks," he says, and glances down the corridor. "Ah..."

"Straight out to your left," she smirks, attention moving back to her rifle. "Take a right at the intersection, it'll take you to the kitchen. Straight through there, and you'll be back at your barracks."

\--- 

Most of the morning crowd has already moved on, but Dwight seems content to loiter over another three cups of coffee while Paul catches up on the trailer project. From what he gathers, there'd been a tense fifteen minutes yesterday where they'd been debating dismantling the entire ship; Dwight agrees that it's probably for the best that he hadn't been there to hear it. 

It's strange, shifting through the papers he's got spread out. There hadn't been all that much of it on the Colony, and what there'd been tended to be more carefully used than what he's seeing now. It's honestly a little frustrating, having to shuffle through the stack to find what he's looking for. There's no zooming in for a clearer view, there's no indication of scale on half of the pages. But even so, the picture's becoming clearer. 

"Looks good," he says, nodding at Axel who, like several of the others in the Earth contingent, keep looking at him as if he's about to keel over at any minute. "You talk to Daryl about the welds, here?"

"These guys have it down," Dwight says, shaking his head confidently; it's a move that's calculated to put Axel at ease, and Paul's satisfied to see that it does. "Just wanted another set of eyes on the clip-in points for the haul line." 

He flips back to a page. For all their lack of advance intel on the RV, they'e actually done a good job coming up with the plan, though mentioning it would probably just sound patronizing. To Axel, he asks, "You said you have two winch lines to stabilize it?"

"And a backup if we need it once we get going," he confirms, wariness mostly gone now as he begins to detail their setup, and maybe it's just that he's feeling human again, or maybe it's just Axel's confidence, but Paul's really starting to think that while there's still work ahead of them, it's not going to be as insurmountable as he'd feared. 

\--- 

_Friday, 10/03/2149, 09:18_

"So you and him are back on again or what?"

Daryl pinches the bridge of his nose, and supposes he should give the kid credit. He'd made it all of five minutes before starting in.

He'd figured it was coming; yesterday evening he'd woken up to Carl moving quietly through the room, though he'd made himself scarce by the time he'd managed to shove himself upright. Paul had been crashed out pretty hard, so he'd gotten up, hit the head, and wandered into the mess hall where everyone else was waiting out the last of the storm. 

Then the guard shift change had happened, so relieved to be out of the rain that the whole mood of the gathering had shifted. He'd wound up getting dealt in on a poker game when Sasha'd called him over, re-introducing him to Bertie, who was in charge of the vehicles , and Tomas, who he'd last seen storming away from the trailers. Apparently he'd gotten over whatever had crawled up his ass, and the two of them had offered up some actual information alongside the gossip they were spouting. 

Who was seen sneaking off under the bridge with who, and how the last SA skirmish had gone down. Theories about Rosita's apparent hard-assedness and rumors about how Louisville had become a ghost town last month. What the politics in DC sounded like these days, and how often they heard anything at all about it. Of the two of them, Tomas had been the more paranoid. He'd sounded, really, like he was just one bad day from washing his hands of this whole thing. 

Dinner had happened, and then someone'd rigged up a sheet to use as a screen, and they'd projected some movie- old and subtitled- that Daryl hadn't felt much like tracking. Even so, it had been late by the time he'd gone back to the barracks. By then, the rest of them had all been crashed out. 

So there really hadn't been any time for anyone to give him any shit about it. 

"Don't worry about it," he says now. Mostly 'cause, as far as he's concerned, things are actually too good to start poking at it with sticks. 

"Not worried," Carl kicks a piece of gravel into one of the nearest armored truck's tires; it leaves a spatter of mud in its wake. "Just bored."

He kind of gets it, actually. After months trapped on the RV, just waiting to get here, they'd had plenty of time to wait, and it ain't like they'd landed near a city. It's nice enough out here, with the trees and the water, but it ain't like Daryl'd been dreaming of coming to Earth just to hang out on an abandoned highway, either. 

There'd still been cars driving on it, he's pretty sure, when he'd left, and he turns away, squinting up the road to the car sitting on the shoulder about a mile or so up. He'd only noticed it a while ago, but it hasn't moved, probably in months. 

"Dunno what's goin' on with him," he says, only letting himself half-think about it. It ain't bad, bein' so plain about it now. "It's cool, though. Whatever it is."

"You should-" Carl breaks off, eyes locking onto something down on the other side of the bridge. 

"What is it?"

He shakes his head. "Keep thinking I'm seeing things."

"Animals?" He narrows his eyes to look; with the gray sky overhead, there's not so much glare from the sun that he can't see under the canopy, but he can't see anything where Carl's pointing.

"Probably just plants." He shakes his head, disappointed, probably still waiting to see one of the bears Daryl'd told him about. Daryl hasn't seen one neither. 

Back behind the complex, a generator's just turned on. "Looks like they're getting started in on it. You coming?"

"Nah," Carl looks up at the sky, then over towards the comms center where Bertie's leaning against the truck, looking as bored as they are. "Think I'm gonna see if she's found those binoculars yet. But I'll come down in a bit if you guys need any help."

With a wave- somewhat relieved that for a little while at least, he won't be having to feel responsible for keeping Carl entertained- Daryl sets back towards the camp, his boots squelching in the mud as he leaves the pavement. It's going to be dirty work anyway, if he can find somewhere to chip in. 

His feet stick a little heavier, though, when he sees Paul out in the yard near the complex, talking with Sasha. He's standing taller than he was yesterday, grinning about something he's pointing out on the stack of papers he's trying to keep from blowing away, and suddenly, he really thinks he could've stood to hear how Carl's _you should_ would've finished. 

The two of them disappear around the other side of the tents, heading towards the generator racket like half the rest of the camp seems to be doing. Now that the rain's cleared and Paul's up and about, there's no reason for them not to be getting to work on getting out of here. 

Daryl's just starting across the grass to follow them when he hears a horrible, loud _crack_ giving way to a _boom_ as he's shoved, stumbling forward, by a wave of hot gritty air at his back.


	4. Chapter 4

_Friday, 10/03/2149, 09:28_

_It's just thunder_.

Not that it stops Paul from wincing, but everyone else is, too. 

And then shouts start filling the yard as it erupts into chaos, and when he turns to follow the soldiers' swarming movement back around the trucks, he finally sees why. Behind the plume of dust, the comms station is missing at least one wall, the rest of it giving way to rubble. Along the side, the radio antenna is still threatening to fall.

There's a sudden grip on his shoulder- "We gotta _go_ ," Tomas shouts, nodding back towards the complex, adjusting the grip of his rifle; he shouts something Paul can't follow into his radio. 

More terrifying than that, though, is the sight of Daryl, standing halfway between the camp and the rubble, stock still, hand on his ear. He's not doing anything, not _running_ , just staring at the attackers swarming over the hill.

He needs to move, needs to at least _turn_ so Paul can-

Daryl does turn, though, and it's far, but he thinks he's been seen. He waves his arms, beckoning him forward, but then- of all the movements the man could make- Daryl, locked onto him for sure, just shakes his head. An instant later, breaking into a run as he joins the throng of perimeter guards running towards the comms center. 

There are others, there, too, who he doesn't recognize out of uniform, and-

"Inside, _now_." Tomas actually shoves him this time, back towards the flap door near the soldier's barracks; he stumbles into Sasha as he turns; he hadn't even known she was there. 

"The fuck's he doing?!" He shouts at her, and now it's her turn to grab him, this time by the arm, to drag him inside. 

" _Carl's_ out there."

_Fuck_. 

\--- 

Daryl stays low, edging up along the eastern side, trying to keep an eye on the comms center as he runs. 

So far the guards are keeping the attackers- SA guerrillas by the looks of it- busy, drawing their fire. It's probably a fucked up thing to hope for, but at least they've got _weapons_. All he's got in his favor is the fact that the attackers either haven't noticed him yet, or don't give a shit. 

Carl doesn't have anything, save for enough smarts to hunker down next to the armored truck- 1C emblazoned across the hood in white stenciled paint- parked by the complex. 

He doesn't know how many had been inside the station; he can't even make out how many are coming from either direction, in the swirling dust there's not enough distinction between the SA and NATOPS camouflages swarming the bombed-out structure, and he doesn't have the time to stand around trying' to figure it out. 

He just needs to get to Carl- it's not far now- to get him the fuck _out_ of here. 

The where and what and _how_ are just going to have to wait, though, because up at his 11:00, less than thirty yards away, someone's falling down, their gunfire going wild, and there's this _pause_ as Daryl hesitates a moment too long, trying to figure out where the shot came from. 

He's pretty sure the woman training her rifle on the fallen body is one of their own, but he's not certain until she looks at him and gestures sharply to the east- _move out_ \- before spinning on her heel and heading back into the fight that's swarming back up into the woods. 

Feet finally moving again, he focuses on Carl, crouched against the all-terrain front tire of the truck, arms over his head against; his knees hit the gravel next to him mere seconds later. He's too out of breath to ask if he's okay, but Carl's already reacting, pushing up sharply like he'd have any chance of running, before grabbing his arm. 

"You okay?"

"Depends on you."

Carl nods- it's a jerky movement, and from this angle he can't see his eye; he turns his head, though, and nods again. "So now what?"

He sounds more like his father than he could possibly know, but even if Daryl wanted to tell him that, he wouldn't be able to hear it over the roar of motorcycles gunning on wide-open throttle; the only thing saving them is that the riders are cutting past on the other side of the truck, too intent on the complex- and the molotov cocktails in their hands- to bother checking their six. 

Carl's quick, already half-under the truck, which is better than nothing, but _inside_ the armored vehicle would be better; Daryl edges forward to peer around the front headlight's overbuilt housing to check that they're clear to move as the rattling of machine gun fire punctures the air. 

\--- 

"Stay right and _keep moving_ ," Tomas bites out, as they try to clear a path for the half dozen soldiers running out past them. "Head for the kitchen." His words are nearly lost beneath the volley of gunfire that's erupted outside, and it's not the first time Paul's been unable to breathe on this fucking planet, but this? It's worse than yesterday. 

"They're getting closer," Sasha says, voice low, and Paul isn't sure, but he knows what she's getting at. Probably everyone here does, too. 

These walls barely stand up to wind, and these are _bullets_. 

Agitated voices, up ahead, and the scraping of heavy objects against plastic flooring. It's Dwight and Guillermo and Andrea, dragging things away from the folded out floor of the kitchen as they prepare to secure it; Dwight rushes towards them, grabbing Sasha in a quick hug and clapping him on the shoulder. 

"Carl? Daryl?"

"Still out there," Sasha says, taking a breath and looking from one soldier to the next as if she's waiting for them to turn on her. 

Three shots. _Much_ closer. 

"We've got people on it," Andrea says. "Perimeter's breached, we need to get this up _now_."

"Paul, _c'mere_ , the buckskin' thing's-" 

Andrea's stepping back, speaking sharply into her comms, and Paul steps out of her way, blinking his eyes and trying to focus. It's essentially just a four by eight floor panel that needs to be folded up, and a matching awning that needs to come down; he can't see any mechanism to-

" _Fuck! _"__

__He spins on his heel; Tomas is crouching, half collapsed, one hand on his hip; Paul has just enough time to register this much when he notices the blood._ _

__He notices the smoke right afterwards, and then the smell: burning plastic._ _

__"We have to get out of here," Sasha says, and Andrea turns back towards them with a sharp nod._ _

__"We head back out the way you came in, stay low behind the tent. Truck 2C is out at the end-"_ _

__Dwight grabs her by the arm. "The RV's closer- it's got shields."_ _

__"If we can get them _on,_ " Sasha's cuts him off, "Mitch, where is he?"_ _

__"Already heading this way," Andrea confirms, then, giving them a thumbs up, relays the plan into her comms, "Mitch, we need to get on the RV, can you make it happen?" Guillermo's already helping Tomas up when she gives the order for them to move out._ _

__There's more smoke pouring into the mess, and it's harder to breathe around the smell as they jog back towards the rear entrance. They're nearly there, only a few more feet to go, when Guillermo shouts for them to hold up. "Someone's gotta take him."_ _

__Paul's closest, and so he gets his shoulder underneath Tomas's arm; his face is already so drenched in sweat and screwed up in pain that it's doubtful he's really aware of the handoff, even when he suddenly _drops_ , his feet slipping out from under him, nearly taking Paul down with him into the spattered mess of blood that's already starting to pool at their feet. _ _

__Paul wants to shout out some kind of warning, but the words won't come and anyway, Guillermo, rifle in hand, is already flanking Andrea as they approach the door._ _

__They already know how bad this is._ _

__A hot gust of air and smoke pushes out from behind them as they rip the flap door aside and step through, but the breathing's only _almost_ easier out here. The central arm of the complex is giving off so much smoke that he can't see the flames, but Guillermo must see something, because he's dropping to a crouch and firing._ _

__Sasha steps up to help him keep Tomas on his feet as Andrea directs them back and to the left, in hopes that another few layers of thin plastic will be enough to keep them safe; she's shouting, and Mitch is there, suddenly, surveying them with a quick glance before hitting Dwight on the arm and motioning for him to follow._ _

__"Set him down and stay low," Andrea tells them, shouting into her radio. "Espinosa, I've got them out, the kitchen's a no-go, we're going to try and get them on the ship but we need backup!"_ _

__It's almost worse, their lack of sight lines back here, only being able to hear the noise and the shouting and the vehicles swerving through the yard. Crouching towards the corner and ducking, instinctively and pointlessly, beneath the punctured holes in the tent, he peers around to see what's taking so long._ _

__"What's the fucking access code?" Dwight is shouting down from the flatbed. He's got one hand braced up against the wing as he tries to work the hatch open. Mitch, covering him from below, just lurches back suddenly, his shoulder catching Dwight hard in the calf as he stumbles against the side of the flatbed. They both manage to hold their footing, though, and Mitch braces his shoulder against the side of the trailer as he awkwardly repositions himself to aim._ _

__Andrea's cover fire is too late; he's already been hit._ _

__In the widening spaces between gunshots, and over the sound of overheated air gusting out through the bullet holes in the tent, there's another sound, roaring up from the west._ _

__It's one of the armored trucks, dark gray with 2F stenciled on the hood, and it's swerving into the line of fire, turning itself into a shield momentarily as it plows ahead, bearing down on the three motorcycles that are heading straight for the RV._ _

__The first one goes down quickly, its two riders falling off as they're caught in the hail of gunfire, sending the bike skidding to the side. The other two split off, one only narrowly missing the front wheel of their fallen compatriots, and they're quicker to maneuver, even with truck 2C joining in the pursuit._ _

__"Dwight, get down!" Andrea's overtaxed voice is rough with smoke as she steadies Mitch, who's clamping his hand over his bicep. "Everyone, we gotta _move_ , 1D is holding down on the west end, let's _go_." _ _

__Tomas can't, though. He's sitting in a motionless heap on the ground next to the tent, bleeding whatever blood he'd had left into the wet sodden ground._ _

__\---_ _

__He's okay, he's fine._ _

__He can't hear a goddamn _thing_. _ _

__But he ain't been hit, and his lungs have remembered how to work, and he's dimly aware of the sharp jabs hitting his ankle._ _

__Carl's eyepatch has come loose, which from this angle mostly serves to reveal the full weight of his scowling eyebrows and a horrifying reminder of what worse could still happen. Carl's trying to tug him underneath, maybe, but he ain't gonna risk shouting to point out the futility. He does edge closer, though, and lets Carl yank his arm down._ _

__From here, he can see a body lying on the ground on the other side of the truck, wearing NATOPS camouflage; there's a distinctly _non_ -standard issue boot moving up from the ground to the motorcycle's footboard. It's a long, silent moment before the driver primes the engine, sending up gravel and shredded grass as the bike tears away, powering towards the camp. _ _

__He ain't about to get up for a closer look, but then Carl's twisting back and slithering more completely underneath the truck; it's pretty clear what he's doing, and Daryl ain't got no room to shout so he just reaches under, hits him on the arm._ _

__The damn kid doesn't even turn back to look, and he's just about ready to get his ass up and break cover just to run around and get there _first_ when Carl's other arm snakes back in, dragging the dropped handgun with him. _ _

__The fact that he passes it right over without buckskin' around doesn't make Daryl any less pissed off, but he takes it anyway._ _

__It's heavy, still warm from being fired. For all he knows, it's empty, and he's suddenly _certain_ that even releasing the clip to check will alert more SA, unseen and _nearby_ , to their presence. _ _

__If they don't already know that they're there, they'll see them any minute._ _

__Fucking _guns_. It's been a long time since he's used one, but the weight and the shape of it is familiar enough. More real, somehow, than the colony's blasters. Louder and clumsier, too, even with as small as it is. _ _

__He'd used a rifle, sometimes, before he'd gotten good enough at the crossbow that the worth of its silence outpaced the effort of resetting. Merle, though, he'd loved the buckskin' things even when he'd been a kid, stealing magazines and pouring over them, rattling off statistics between models easier than he could get through the damned alphabet._ _

__It's a Taurus 9mm that he's holding. If he remembers right, the slide'll stay open when it's empty._ _

__He doesn't know what to do with that information- doesn't know what to do at all, and he hates the fact that Carl's been don' as much as he has. But he hates himself more for what he's going to tell him to do next._ _

__He leans low, whispering loud._ _

__"Carl, you see any keys?"_ _

__Carl turns his head away, then shakes it against the ground before hefting himself up on one elbow to shift forward._ _

__"Be careful!"_ _

__No nod, no sign that he's heard him._ _

__Carl's not stupid, though. He'll be careful. In the meantime, Daryl tries to peer around him, looking for feet or any movement at all in the few yards of dirt he can catch from this angle._ _

__Maybe it would be best if he got up, moved around the front of the truck, drew off any attention._ _

__If they've already seen him- and they _must_ have, by now- his lack of NATOPS camouflage is probably why he ain't been shot at, yet. It might be enough. _ _

__The gun in his hand, though, that changes things. Makes him a worthy target._ _

__He sets it down next to the wheel, and takes a breath, all too aware of the sound of Carl's foot making contact with the truck's undercarriage as he shifts; when Daryl leans down, he can see both of Carl's arms, tugging at the fallen soldier's sleeve._ _

__He just needs to get him inside, get him some actual _cover_. _ _

__But this is fucked up, what he's doing, Carl's just a _kid_ , and-_ _

__-and Carl's moving back so suddenly, jerking against the truck's undercarriage with a pained _thud_ that Daryl can't breathe as jangling metal strikes him sharply in the wrist._ _

__The the keys hit the ground an instant later._ _

__\---_ _

__It's not until they're inside that Daryl allows himself another glance out the surprisingly small, reinforced windshield to realize that it's over._ _

__There's no sign of the SA, just the meandering routes of their bikes disappearing onto the highway on the western side of the camp. The other trucks are starting to move out, cutting slow cautious gashes through the median as soldiers jump out to confirm the kills in the field._ _

__The whole scene is awash in smoke, but the central arm of the east end of the camp has burned down to nothing. The wind's already shifting the smoke away so that he can see past it._ _

__With everyone wearing camo and spattered in mud, it's hard to make out the details, but he can see a cluster of familiar coveralls- Dwight jumping down from the RV, helping Mitch move off, and Paul, arms folded, standing there too rigidly as he stares down at a crumpled heap on the ground._ _

__It's probably a body._ _

__Sasha ain't accounted for._ _

__He takes a breath. Tries to decide if he wants to mention it to Carl, who's still crouched low in his seat, curled towards him._ _

__With a resolve he doesn't really feel, he puts the keys in the ignition._ _

__"Think we're clear," he says. If they aren't, it's better to be there than here._ _

__The moment he puts it in drive, Carl twitches violently against the seat when the handheld radio crackles violently to life._ _

__"Vehicle 1C, identify yourself."_ _

__He's never been so glad to hear Sasha's voice in his life._ _

__"It's Daryl. Got Carl in here too."_ _

__Another voice cuts into the channel; one he's not so familiar with. "Anyone with you?" It's Espinosa, he's pretty sure. Probably in one of the trucks moving across field, if the jostling in her voice is anything to go by. "You okay?"_ _

__"Just us. We're good." Not really._ _

__"Can you drive?" It's harder to hear her over truck's engine, which is growing bizarrely louder._ _

__"Yeah."_ _

__"Then get your asses back down-" she cuts out, suddenly, and just as it starts dawning on him that the engine noise is actually coming from _behind_ the truck, the camp again erupts into chaos, everyone trying to scatter._ _

__The shadow passing overhead is fast enough that all he can lock onto are the twin wakes of muddy turf being blasted up under the strafing run's path, cutting off at the end as the jet twists sharply up and away, shaking the ten tons of armor down to the tires; down at the camp, even the RV's being caught in an updraft._ _

__They've probably only got a few minutes before the next run, and there are maybe only six armored vehicles on the field; he's trying to map them out, starting, finally starting to _drive_ when there's another deafening engine roar, this time coming from up ahead._ _

__He has only enough time to recognize the sickening sound of it before the whole camp disappears in a flash of blinding white light._ _


	5. Chapter 5

_Friday, 10/03/2149, 10:27_

There's a gap in the scenery where the RV should be. Everything else is chaos.

Daryl edges 1C out to the northbound lane and heads south, edging around the larger pieces of debris. Most of it's mud. None of it- nothing past the stenciled paint on the hood of the truck- is anything he wants to look at too closely. 

Carl's on the floor of the seat next to him; he can't tell him to sit up, yet. Can't tell him that the danger's passed. 

The SA hasn't come back. They don't need to; the burnout of the RV's launch engines had done their work for them, searing the ground in its wake, leaving the tent complex smoldering. But nothing, out there, is safe. 

"Stay here," he says, stopping the truck a few yards shy of the of worst of the smoke. There ain't much here left to burn, but the smell is bad enough and the view, what's left of it, is terrible. 

There are people moving gingerly through the torn up camp, but not as many of them as there should be, and even as he's walking towards them, the instinct to keep his eyes low, to not look too hard, is still there, but all it gives him, as he steps around the molten strewn remains of the barracks melting jaggedly into the ground, is a close-up view of the blackened dead soil.

There's nothing recognizable left inside; his eyes follow the outline and sharp contrast of now startlingly green grass until it's broken, suddenly, by what's left of a body. 

It's Mitch, splayed out on the edge like he's swimming out of it. Everything from his shoulder to his opposite hip ends nauseatingly at the the seam. 

There's not enough of him. There's not even any blood; everything down to the earth's been cauterized. 

In his peripheral, Daryl can see limping, twisted people, the shapes of them making no more sense than Mitch's.

Survivors. 

If Mitch had just kept swimming another few feet, he might've been one of them. 

There are people who need help, who might be shouting already, but everything's gone _silent_ , and he wants, maybe needs, to keep it that way for just another minute. There's a rock in his throat and he's not sure what'll happen when and if he tries to speak. But there's a hand waving at him from across the dead swath of turf, and if he doesn't look up now, he's not sure he will. 

In the brief moment it takes him to raise his eyes, he can read the shapes of the burnt out mounds in the field just fine. 

He just doesn't understand them, yet. 

\--- 

The other vehicles are clustering on the other side of the burn zone, giving him a destination, at least. 

He takes the long way around, like he'll be in any better shape to process any of this by the time he arrives. Here and there, soldiers are picking themselves up, or curling themselves up. A lot of them, even outside the burn zone, are just dead. Nobody's shouting, which is why it stands out, so much, Sasha's voice, yelling his name. She breaks away from the small group of soldiers huddled numbly by the trucks. 

She's crying, doing no better a job of looking at him than he is, looking back at her, but something in his brain turns over, finally, and latches onto a thought. 

Paul and Dwight aren't with her. 

\--- 

_Friday, 10/03/2149, 10:48_

 

He's not sure which of them is holding on so tight just to stave off the moment where they'll have to look up again, but gradually, unwelcomely, the noise starts to settle in around them. Everyone is shouting; it's not until Sasha, two inches from his ear, shouts Carl's name as a question twice that Daryl starts to catch on. 

This close to the launch, the sound would've been deafening. 

He ducks his head back, moving until he's blocking her field of view and she's blocking his, and nods in what he hopes is a reassuring manor, though he can't be sure. "In the truck." He hooks a thumb over his shoulder for emphasis, drops it when the irony of the gesture feels too loud. 

He should go get him.

But he should have something more to tell him, first. 

But he's not going to be any better off, seeing any of this too soon. 

And another five minutes won't fix anything, Daryl just needs-

"Where's-" 

He doesn't know who to start with. Which one will hurt first.

She's shrugging, and for a second, it feels like she's drawing herself up to speak, but then her face collapses and he has no words, and she can't hear them, but he can grab her by the shoulders and hold her tighter. He can convince himself that the tension in his arms is due to the strength of his grip and not the sheer fucking abject terror of what she hasn't managed to tell him. 

He doesn't have the heart or the courage to ask again, but he's angry enough now to start searching every face he comes across as they're urged back towards the trucks. 

Rosita's holding up sheets of paper, shouting the words into the too-small crowd. 

" _Med station is here._ " 

She bends over, pressing the stack into her thigh as she scrawls on the next page. In between the trucks, some of the less- or maybe more- shocked members of the regiment are setting up a water station, the beginnings of a field hospital. Others are staggering towards it, milling awkwardly, he can't tell who's waiting to help or waiting for help. 

"Survivors. Triage. Help if you can." And then, jabbing the cap end of her marker against the _triage_ she asks, "Volunteers?"

This is bad, but he can hear, and he can walk. He's not injured. 

He raises his hand.

\--- 

_Friday, 10/03/2149, 11:29_

He and Bertie comprise team C; he follows her lead, as soon as they're given their search area south of the complex, they move fast, stabilizing what they can and flagging them for the medics.

Red flagging tape for the most critically injured. Green for those who they'll think will hang on longer. Sickly neon yellow for the dead. 

Axel's red tape is switched out for yellow the moment the stretchers arrive. It matches the one they'd just wound around Tomas's arm. 

Two green flags for dazed and blistered soldiers he doesn't recognize, and less than a minute later he's madly waving a handful of red flagging tape over a wetly gasping third. Bertie's doing what she can to hold the woman's remaining blood inside of her; and whether or not it's enough, he moves on the moment Siddiq starts heading towards them. 

Andrea, scooting herself across the trampled grass on her hands and one remaining foot, grits her teeth and shakes her head at the green tape he's futilely shoving in her face. Her foot's gone at the ankle; the wound seems cauterized but filthy already. She doesn't have the spare breath to cuss him out, but the glare's enough. 

There's a woman so pristinely dead he's got no idea _how_. He barely knows how to take a pulse, but he's touched three dead bodies, now, and one that he knows won't make it, and he wants someone else to come take over, because his hands are shaking too much to feel anything, anymore. He ties the red tape around her wrist, hoping like hell, and he moves on. 

There's no Dwight. No Paul. 

\---

_Friday, 10/03/2149, 11:48_

There's a hand on his shoulder the moment he stands up, and he spins around too fast, nearly falling over in the process. 

It's just Rosita, shaking her head and offering up a grim curl of the lips that isn't about to become a smile. 

"I need you to take a break" Rosita tells them, her eyes snapping onto his the moment he opens his mouth to argue. "I know there are more out there. Team A's on the perimeter, all that's left is the radio-"

"Don't bother." Bertie's voice is low, resigned, gesturing at her earpiece. "There isn't anyone left."

Rosita takes a deep breath, and reaches out to touch her on the arm, nudging her back towards the trucks while casting a watchful eye on Daryl until he, too, falls into step. 

On the other side of the medic's truck, Carl and Sasha are huddled together under a shared blanket. He's too slow to realize what his showing up alone means; there's no time to retrace his steps before either of them look up. 

"They were right there when it happened," Sasha says, a minute or so later, eyes dim but her voice loud and measured, like she doesn't trust it not to move on her. "I didn't have eyes on them."

Carl lurches, burying his face in the blanket, pulling it down; it slides off of Sasha's shoulder, but she simply uses her freed sleeve to swipe at her face, setting her jaw and nodding tightly as she squints out into the woods. She doesn't look up at Daryl, and he's almost glad of it. 

But he sits down on Carl's other side. Puts his hand on his back to let him know that he's there, and tries to convince himself that the effort's worth any fucking thing at all. 

\---

_Friday, 10/03/2149, 12:30_

Guillermo comes by, sets MRE's out in front of them. 

There's no eating when the air smells like this. 

\---

_Friday, 10/03/2149, 12:58_

He can't stop looking up whenever anyone gets too close, and swallowing down the spikes of hope every time it happens is hard on his throat. The urge to stand up, to see what's happening on the other side of the truck keeps spiking at his joints; he can't stop listening for any indication that what's what's happened _didn't_ just happen. 

He tries not to, though. 

Looking out this way, though, there's just grass. An empty lane of highway and trees. When the wind shifts, the charred death and burnt garbage smell abates, though not enough. 

It'll linger for weeks, he already knows, in the grass and the soil and the air.

He's had it burned into his head for decades.


	6. Chapter 6

_Friday, 10/03/2149, 16:00_

He's keeping a lid on it, but _something_ feels like it's about to boil over. 

Striding past the trucks, past the burn zone, and out towards the road like it'll take him anywhere worth being. By the time he reaches the bridge- throat dry, everything else under water- Daryl can't remember getting there.

He's been trying to change the math, coming up with a too-short list of ways that Rosita's count could be off, or that some SA grunt had fallen into the burn zone. Spinning bullshit theories that would allow one or two people still to be out here, somewhere, still working their way back. 

But it's been hours, now, and try as he might, the numbers won't change. 

"Already searched down there." The guard stationed on the perimeter lookout takes a few warning steps towards him, but she doesn't order him back, so, edging around the concrete barrier, he begins to make his way down the embankment. 

They've already searched everywhere. He _knows_.

He just couldn't sit around on his ass waiting for some grunt he doesn't even know to announce that they're giving up. Couldn't spend another second catching Carl glancing away guiltily every time he turned his head, or watching Sasha stare at _nothing_ in blank defeat. He'd tried, for a while, to be there with them, like it would fucking _help_ or something, pretending he wasn't feelin' the jagged rage hollowing out his chest a little bit more with every passing minute, carving its way towards something explosive. 

So he'd gotten up, and he'd started walking. If tryin' to do somethin' about it don't prove to be enough, at least he's brought his blast radius along with him.

So he tells himself he won't _let_ it, not _yet_ , and he tries to focus. 

Where the standard-issue boot treads aren't crisscrossing the mud, there are bent reeds and twigs to mark the search party's progress; he avoids their trails where he can, as if a foot and a half to the left is all that's required to find someone alive and uninjured. He goes out into the trees, squinting through the dappled light to see any evidence of movement or disturbance, head on a swivel as he picks his way through the underbrush. 

He can hear the soldier's resigned shouts as they pull together what's left of the camp up on the bridge; the dirt-muffled vibrations of vehicles moving around echoes off the concrete below. The sounds give way, gradually, to the wind rustling the trees, and the steadily flowing river at his left. 

For a moment it feels like the _right_ kind of tracking, but the moment the thought hits him, it's no longer true. Nothing about this is clearing his head the way hunting used to, and another twitch snags at his ribs- _what's the goddamned point_ \- and he has to breathe in hard through his nose because his jaw is clenched too tight to function.

He breathes out. 

There are no birds, not even a chipmunk skittering along a branch overhead, and definitely no dazed voices calling for help. He can't hear the camp at all, now. He's gone far enough out that the only tracks out here are his own. 

He makes his way out from under the trees, treading carefully on the matted reeds as he approaches the river, squinting against the surface glare to see underneath as he follows it back underneath the bridge. There's just more rusted garbage, here, caught between rocks and jagged concrete. The water's shallow- only three feet at most, maybe, but it's moving fast enough that cutting across to search the other side is too risky. 

He stares, visualizing all too easily what would happen if someone hit the river from the top of the bridge. If they had a boat, they could get down it a ways, follow it down to the next gnarled bend of the river, recover the body. At least they'd still be recognizable- not charred, burnt-up, anonymous _ash_ up in the yard. 

But there's nothing there. 

\--- 

He doesn't know when he'd picked up the jagged rock, he doesn't even know he's holding it until it's worn a gritty bloody scrape into the palm of his hand. 

It hurts enough to distract him, for a minute, but it's startling enough, too, to force him think about the practicalities. 

Get the grit out. 

Breathe until he can do it without fuckin' sobbing all over again. 

Wipe his eyes, splash some water on his face. 

_Don't jump in_. 

Climb back up and over to the other side of the river. 

_Keep looking._

\--- 

Sasha's yelling his name when he climbs back up onto the bridge, storming furiously towards him on an intercept path as he crosses the bridge. She's got Carl following behind, giving her a wide berth. 

"You just fucking _took off?!_ " 

"Yeah." He gestures down at the water, but there's no sense belaboring the point. The soldier is still there, pretending not to watch as they pass by, turning her eyes back towards the camp. 

"Yeah, _fine_ , sure." Sasha crosses her arms, bringing her voice down- it's still loud enough that her hearing's probably still off- and falling into step alongside him. 

Carl scoffs, still trailing behind. "Just scared the _shit_ out of us is all, no big deal."

"I'm sorry-" he's turning back towards him when his attention's snagged by Guillermo, over in the camp, shouting for Magda. 

"Yeah, well. Everything that's happened is _still happening_ ," Sasha says. "And we really don't want to be worrying about you in the middle of it, okay?"

He almost wants to argue that point, because he's damned certain that her being angry about this still feels better than anything else she's feeling right now, but he doesn't want to be fighting with her, either. 

"I know. I'm sorry. Just had to look."

"Hold up," the soldier- Magda, apparently- says; far closer than he'd thought she was. She grabs him by the arm. "Stop, everyone. _Look_."

Over on the other side of the camp, on the borders between A and B's search grids, soldiers are gesturing at them in some language Daryl doesn't quite understand, until one of them- Guillermo- raises an orange flag. 

Behind them, an empty field stretcher is being jogged towards the other side of the camp. 

"Think they found one of yours," she says, with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "You should get back."

\--- 

Team B had cleared the trailer trucks over an hour ago. The trailer cab's collapsed in on itself, all crushed metal and broken glass, leaving no space at all for anyone to be. So apparently they hadn't bothered _looking_. 

He'll be angry about it later. Right now he's just trying to stay still while Sasha's grip threatens to crush his as-yet uninjured hand, and watching the soldiers swarm towards the dull metal thuds coming from inside. Siddiq's shouting orders, and someone's _alive_ in there.

"Everyone, we need room." Siddiq waves them back, distractedly, so Daryl lets Sasha drag him back to the side, meandering for a better view. 

Siddiq's half climbed in through the passenger-side window- they can hear his assurances, but no response. Backing out, he nods, waving the backboard into play. 

One boot, then the other. Familiar gray coveralls rucked up over a pale, bloody shin, and Sasha nearly forgets to let go before rushing forward. 

Dwight's thrashing weakly and uncoordinatedly as they ease him out through the passenger-side window, but he lands a well-placed kick against Guillermo's chest, creating an opening through which Sasha can edge closer. There's a lot of blood- Daryl can't figure the source from here- but he doesn't seem to be locking onto Sasha's face, not quite hovering over him. 

And then he does, and her face breaks out into a tearful smile that Daryl can barely stand to look at. 

\--- 

_Friday, 10/03/2149, 17:24_

Sasha and Carl are helping the medics, now, if only so they can keep a better eye on Dwight, so when Rosita asks for volunteers to gather up the dead, he raises his hand. 

Just seems easier; at least their suffering's already done with. 

He takes care of Mitch first, dragging him onto the tarp and then dragging him to the pit that they've just finished digging. 

He doesn't know what to say to anyone, but nobody else is talking either, and he thinks about how Mitch was never really one for speeches anyway. Either way, he's owed more than this, though. 

Daryl only half-listens to the soldier- who might, he realizes, be a chaplain- muttering some prayers from his post on the other side of the grave; he waits for the _Amen_ before turning around to leave. 

Once he's hauled five bodies hauled to the pit they're digging, Guillermo points him out toward the burn zone.

Up to now, he's kept careful blinders on, and even now, he tries not to look too hard. There's no telling where the bodies end and the dirt begins, so he moves them as carefully as he can onto their tarps, then folds them over to prevent any more of them from blowing away. It's unavoidable, though, the seeing. He can't not see the dog tags or bits of melted plastic still clinging to charred skin. Can't help feeling the subtle hardness of bone splintering or charred fabric tearing at the shovel's edge. 

He doesn't know which one of these is Paul.

No.

Which _set of remains_ had _been_ Paul's. 

It's almost easier to pretend like they're _all_ his. Like he can rehearse this, somehow, get it right before it's Paul's turn. He doesn't know any prayers, or if Paul would've wanted them, but he can think, as loudly and deliberately as he can, _sorry_ and _goodbye_ in hopes that through means he wouldn't normally believe in, they'd be heard. 

If he's talking to the wrong pile of ashes, well, he needs the rehearsal. And the dead could probably stand to hear something, at least, even if it weren't really meant for them.

\--- 

_Friday, 10/03/2149, 19:23_

Guillermo and Andrea, who's so numbed on painkillers that she barely seems aware of what it is that she's doing, move from tarp to tarp, sifting through the ashes and shards of burnt, sticky bones and teeth. The dog tags, so far, have mostly been melted beyond easy recognition. When Guillermo jerks, suddenly starting to sob, it sends a plume of ash up into the air and into Daryl's eyes. Andrea, turning her head and blinking, waves Daryl over. 

"No tags on this one," she tells the soldier who's taking notes, her voice tight as she tries not to cough. Guillermo, shoulders still jerking against his attempts to calm himself down, folds the corners gingerly over. Taking a steadying breath, he squints up at him apologetically.

"He's ready to go," Guillermo says, and Daryl's brain goes _blank_.

The bundle, when he picks it up, is no heavier than the other ones had been, but the granularly shifting weight inside was probably, up until a few hours ago, Paul Rovia. 

\---

Over by the pit, they're easing the last of the intact bodies in, and the chaplain's doing another round. The tarps Daryl'd carried over already are folded square and empty, ready to be reloaded, and Carl and Sasha are sitting on the rise a few yards away, grouped with the others who'd come out to pay their respects. She's got her hands pressed against her ears as she stares into the pit. Carl's eye is trained on him, terrified. But he can't look at him right now, not when-

They're careful about it, sliding the ashes and bone down into the pit, but the plume of ash isn't surprising, and he doesn't move to evade when some of it kicks up grittily against his face. He's too busy thinking, as loudly as he can, _this is bullshit, I love you_. 

There's a chance it's not him, but that's not the problem. 

The _problem_ is that it's true, and that this, here, is all Daryl's managed to do with it. 

\--- 

He takes the empty tarps back out to the burn zone, and hauls in the last two sets of remains. The wind's gotten to them already, but the dog tags are still there. 

He doesn't bother to tell either of them goodbye. 

\--- 

_Friday, 10/03/2149, 19:21_

Nobody wants to talk about it, and as long as nobody asks how anybody is, nobody has to feel anything. Daryl doesn't owe them answers, doesn't owe them questions. But the trip's long, and the silences keep stretching out, and that's not really any safer. 

Daryl becomes aware of the plan in fits and starts as the sun goes down, but he can't figure out how to give a damn. They've got too many injured to head straight for Atlanta, so they're heading for the hospital. Guillermo says this like it's a common thing. And Daryl supposes it must still be, down here, but he can't really imagine it, even if the four other soldiers in here seem unsurprised by the idea of it. 

Aside from Dwight, being transported in the medic's truck, he's not sure where his people are, but if he asks about it, someone might think he wants to talk to one of them, or that he wants to talk at all, and he doesn't. Instead he just keeps his eyes trained on the side of the road without taking any of it in. 

"When's the last time you seen 'em with a plane?" Bertie, driving, asks Rosita. 

"Maybe a year, if that," Rosita says. "What I want to know is how the fuck did they get their shit _that_ well together. Last time we saw them, they were scrounging for enough ammo to take a gas station, now they're stealing _spaceships_."

At the mention of the RV, Daryl's attention is roused, but there's nowhere for it to follow. A sick kind of hope flares up out of nowhere, one in which Paul somehow made it on board, got away. 

_Killed a few more people in the process._

He hadn't been that close to the hatch. There hadn't been time. 

He's just dead. 

"Think there's been another alliance?" Bertie's asking, rhetorically by the sound of it.

"Between who and who, though? They'd need the seaboard..." Rosita trails off and Bertie nods, already understanding whatever she hasn't bothered saying. 

Paul would have questions. Hell, maybe in their trucks, Sasha and Carl and Dwight are asking them already. This shit's _happening_ and it's shit they need to know, but he doesn't give a shit. 

Paul's _dead_ , and he doesn't want to think about him too hard, but the weight of the knowledge in his head and in his gut is too heavy to dislodge. Try as he might, he can't look out the window as they pass a crumbling old service station advertising gas for 42.91 a gallon and get any kind of distraction out of it. His brain knows he's trying to cheat. 

Daryl's clothes are crusted with dirt and ashes. Some of it, caught in the whorls of his dried fingertips, might be Paul's. He brushes his hands on his pants, not quite sure if he's brushing him off, or rubbing him in. Either one feels wrong.

He just can't make himself stop.


	7. Chapter 7

_Saturday, 10/04/2149, 03:03_

He's not sure what time it is. 

Paul's ashes, and Daryl's standing outside a prison. 

There are three ambulances lined up along the drive; only one of them even has any air in the tires. Murals cover the walls as far as he can see, sprawling out from the fading graffiti that had probably been setting in for years; the more recent art has every sign of being done by kids following instructions. They have that forced happiness of smiling faces, holding hands, houses, suns and trees. 

Ain't no tellin' what they're covering, but he ain't all that curious, neither. 

"The fuck is that?" Carl fills the spot next to him and points at what Daryl's pretty sure is an image of Superman standing next to a dog. Maybe it's a horse. 

"No idea."

Over Carl's shoulder, he watches Sasha argue Dwight into the wheelchair the orderly's brought out. The sight of his unimpressed, but awake and _alive_ annoyance is a relief to see, if only for a second. 

It's quickly drowned out by a surge of _mean_ fuckin' bitterness that doesn't have anywhere to go. 

Carl follows his gaze and frowns. "Heard 'em on the radio, they're gonna run some tests, next day or so. See if the hearing loss is permanent or..." he trails off, eyes back on the ground again just hard enough that maybe Daryl should've tried at least pretending to give a shit about the mural, just to keep him distracted. As for Dwight, there's nothing he can say to that, and nothing he can do to solve the dozens of new worries the information brings, so he just nods, staring blankly at the procession of injured being moved inside. 

He's not sure if it's shock, drugs, or determination that has Andrea up on her elbows on the stretcher. She's talking with Rosita about securing the vehicles, like having her _foot_ blown off is just some mild inconvenience and not to get in the way of anything. Eventually, though, she's taken inside, and Rosita's off again, helping Siddiq and the hospital staff run triage. 

After what feels like an eternity, he and Carl are instructed to get in line for room assignment. 

Inside, intake's more crowded than it's meant to be, but it's still _intake_. The desk staff won't be rushed, the guards are standing point. But there ain't no handcuffs, the only weapons in the room are the ones being turned in, and the security doors leading to the cell blocks are wide open. 

The sign painted in rigid script on the wall reads: 

_Baldwin Hospital is neutral territory._

_Our staff and volunteers provide aid to all, regardless of alignment or allegiance. All weapons must be surrendered for secure storage at the front desk. All patients, caregivers and guests will leave the fight at the door; failure to do so will immediately result in a loss of services for the patient and all related parties._

Below that is a list of rules, which appear to be in no particular order: Washing hands, respecting patient privacy, and checking in and out at the desk. They've got radio protocols posted, along with hours for the infirmary, laundry room, and lights out. In the event of an evacuation, follow the orange arrows on the walls, and in the event of an altercation, clear the area to allow room for security to step in. At the bottom, below a worn Red Cross insignia, someone's scrawled _Don't start none, won't be none_ in shit-brown paint. As startlingly clean as the rest of the place is, nobody's bothered to clean it off. 

\--- 

They're shuffled down the line to the end of the counter where they're given pillows and charity-made blankets and a metal keychain with no key attached. Then he and Carl are marched down a corridor and into the cell block, guided by a red-haired woman whose name he doesn't bother to remember. 

"All right, you're up on 1-208," she says, glancing at the keychain and leading them down a gouged and scarred corridor that had, no doubt, once been filled with locked gates. Eventually, they reach an intact door. "Now, don't be alarmed when we go in. We haven't managed to refit the cells in this wing yet, but there are no locks on the bars. We do, however, maintain quiet hours, so we'll have to keep it down getting you settled in, okay?" 

They step through the door, and he has enough time to register that the cell block is brighter and more colorful than he'd been expecting before he drops his eyes down to the floor again. "Where's Dwight and Sasha?" Carl asks, mostly to Daryl, in a near whisper, but the woman turns around. 

"I'm sorry, I don't have a roster yet, and triage is still ongoing," she smiles cautiously. "Were they injured?"

"He was," Daryl says, glancing up again to scan the faces, here and there, watching them from open cells or out on the catwalk above. There's nothing hostile, but their curiosity is irksome enough. "She was just with him."

"Block two's the hospital wing, on the other side of the infirmary. Block one is genpop, so to speak, and three is assisted living. We have daily orientation in the mornings at 8 after breakfast down here, a lot of your questions will be answered then."

They follow her up stairs wrapped in swaths of foraged carpet to the second floor, and then along the catwalk until the woman stops and waves them inside. 

"Get some rest," she tells them, her mind already moving on. "It'll be morning soon."

\--- 

The cell's pretty much exactly what Daryl'd expected it to be, though the spot where he figures the toilet would be is empty, the concrete patched over. 

Carl's looking at it all like it's some sort of luxury hotel; compared to the cramped quarters of the ship, or the weird openness of the barracks, Daryl can't really blame him. 

He's quiet, though. The two of them sort out who's going where with a few glances, and that's it, as far as conversation goes. 

Daryl sets his pillow down against the wall and lies down to look out past his feet across the way. There's got to be over a hundred people here in the cell block, most of them had stuck their heads out of their cells to watch them as they'd passed. Men, women, old, young. Some of them are visibly injured, but not everyone. Many of the cells look well lived-in, with art on the walls or colorful printed fabric draping the bars, like people are making their lives here. For now, they're just letting them be, and that's just fine with him. 

He doesn't know who's staff, and who's injured, or who's NATOPS and who's SA. He doesn't really know why any of them are _here_ , but it ain't worth finding someone to ask. He'd would, if someone asked it of him, but it's just Carl, here, and he's climbed up onto the top bunk with his back to the room, probably caring less than he does. 

Paul, he's pretty sure, would be curious about the others- probably about everything- but he clamps down on that thought the moment it registers. 

Instead, he thinks about Merle; wonders what he'd say, seein' this whole setup. He'd probably get a kick out of it. Maybe to the point of goin' off about his days in lockup. Maybe to the point of playin' it up just to fuck with everyone, some ingrained notion of vying for position reasserting itself due to the surroundings. Even with everyone as calm as they seem to be, he would've found a way to fuck that up, gleefully or not. 

He'd probably been right about one thing, though. What having _no walls_ does to you. 

The Bullshit Amplifier Effect, he'd called it. 

He'd told him about it one day, in the hallway outside the bland meeting room Daryl's sentencing was going to be sorted out in. Apparently, stripping pipes from an abandoned house and selling them to Larry down at the scrapyard hadn't been enough to earn him a whole courtroom. 

_"You're having a bad day? Tough shit, everyone's gonna know about it. You manage to find something in your day that ain't absolute shit? Everyone's gonna know about that, too, and they're gonna want in on it."_

_"They're probably gonna let me off with community service,"_ Daryl'd pointed out, his voice not as confident as his seventeen year old self had wanted it to be. The suit from the public defender's office hadn't seemed worried, but he hadn't seem all that concerned with how anything in the case rolled out, one way or the other. 

_"Yeah, I know. Dumbass."_ Merle'd grinned at him, shaking his head. "Just in case. Juvie ain't quite as bad, but it's still the same shit. Like goin' to school and never bein' able to leave. They'll come at you with all this 'how are you going to change your life for the better once you're out' bullshit when you've been in there for long enough to forget that there's an outside to even think about.

He'd gotten off with 180 hours of community service. He'd only done 24 before they'd lost track of him, and the county had only come looking for him once before writing him off. In the end, ducking his PO had been enough reason to keep clear of too much stupid bullshit anyway, and by the time he'd turned 18, lack of funding, presumably, had made it even easier for them to forget about him. 

He wonders, idly, if there's a computer locked in a dusty closet somewhere with his name floating around on the hard drive. But it don't really seem like there's police around to maintain that sort of system, and it ain't like he's gonna check. 

But he imagines the look of it, every mark against him spooling out on an old computer screen, coded down into abbreviations that never captured the whole story. At least he tries.

\--- 

_Saturday, 10/04/2149, 07:30_

The morning starts quiet. 

He wakes to gray dingy walls, and it takes him a moment too long to realize that he's not on the ship, and the reason for why _not_ comes crashing at him sideways. 

He'd say that he's tired, or numb, but his jaw hurts somethin' fierce, but he doesn't move a muscle until he hears Carl stirring up above, then dropping to the floor. Carl had cried himself to sleep, and how he's avoiding his gaze like he knows that he's noticed, and Daryl can't meet his for the exact same reason. 

It's a slow, miserable procession down to the mess, and it ain't until Sasha shows up at their table that Daryl has to say anything at all. 

"Dwight's hearing should probably return in a few days, at least partially. Hopefully it'll be enough. Either way, they want to keep him close for a while." She frowns down into her coffee. "Not that we've got any time for that shit."

Rosita joins their miserable gathering, after a while, not looking like she's in much better shape, but she's practiced enough, at least, to make it look like nothing more than bone-deep weariness. She asks if they slept all right, and they lie and say that they did.

\---

Breakfast is weird, and, now that he's awake enough to notice it, apart from their depressed end of the table, the mood in the room is not actually as tense as he's thinking it should be. 

The NATOPS camouflage is clustered, here and there, at tables all over the room. Other than them and the Security staff wearing bright green, posted by every door, there's no telling anyone's allegiance with just a glance. But there are kids here, babies even. Still, for all he knows, some of these people might've had something to do with the attack, a fear which is only slightly allayed once Sasha disappears for a moment, then comes back to report that the front desk's confirmed that theirs is the only party to arrive in the past three days.

For the most part, it's just like any other cafeteria. The regulars, after all, are probably used to this kind of thing, people coming in here after attacks, fucked up and traumatized, picking at their food and tryin' not to meet anyone's eye. Their way of handling it is apparently to carry on with so much deliberate optimism that it's bordering on the ridiculous. At the other end of the long table they're sitting at, there's a group of drinking watered-down coffee and talking shop about sourcing nylon straps, and whether or not they can keep running the shop off the generator like they've apparently been doing. 

"Prosthetics and adaptive gear, sounds like," Rosita explains tiredly, when Sasha, determined for any kind of distraction, asks her about them. "The shop's half the reason the brass moved the hospital here. They can't exactly just order crutches online these days." She sets her fork down, giving them all an assessing glance. "Look, I know you don't want to hear it right now, but you can try to relax. Nobody on either side wants to lose the only safe hospital for fifty miles in any direction. You see those guards there?"

Daryl turns to look, nods just because if she's talking about this, they don't have to think about anything else. "Yeah?"

"There's a very wide, very secure perimeter around the safe zone here. We passed eight outposts on the way in."

She's about to say more when over on landing on the far side of the room, two men are standing; one of them has a prosthetic leg below the knee; the other one starts to sign the moment he begins to speak. 

"Morning, everyone. You probably all know by now, we've got some new neighbors in here," the man announces. "So for all of you who came in last night, a belated welcome. My name's Dion, this here's Mario. If this is your first time here, there's a few things you need to know, the first being that just because I'm the one talking and Mario's up here signing, it don't mean we know anything."

The regulars in the crowd laugh, a shouted _no shit_ is crowed out from the back of the room. 

"You've got medical questions, the infirmary's through the door under that big sign reading Infirmary. Anything else, the front desk will get you connected. There's just over two hundred of us in here, now, and hardly any walls, so everyone, be cool, be respectful. Kitchen's serving for an hour at seven, one and seven every day, but staffed in between so if need something, they'll hook you up."

He pauses for breath; it's a little surprising to find that Mario isn't needing more than a second to catch up; he seems to mostly be translating for the group at the center front table. 

"That said, this whole place is run by volunteers. If you're physically, mentally and emotionally able to chip in, we'd love the help, and I'll get on that in a minute, but first: if you are not feeling it, that's cool. Just 'cause someone's walking upright don't mean they're feeling all right, and we know y'all been through some stuff. If work helps you work through it, though, then you're at the right place." 

Dion claps his hands together, signaling that he's moving on. "Okay, everyone. Janine and Brian have the morning duty list all ready to go if you want to sign up, over at the back table like always. And one final announcement, 'cause I know you've all been waiting on it: Katra and Ali welcomed a _very_ lively and healthy set of twins last night." 

The room doesn't universally erupt into applause, but there's enough of it that it feels close, and Sasha, Rosita, Carl and him go through the motions of joining in. Sasha even manages to muster up a plastic grin. Dion's next words are almost buried under the sound of it all. "They're all doing great, but let's give them a few days before swarming them, all right?"

\--- 

_Sunday, 10/05/2149, 06:49_

He's been lying here for at least fourteen hours, ever since Rosita's tour of the facility had led them back to the cell block. 

The skin at his wrist is raw from where he's been clawing at it, and he's not sure that he's slept. He knows he's missed visiting hours, though, because Sasha's let herself in to sit on the floor, her back against the frame of the bunk. 

"You want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay, well. Rosita wants us all to get together tomorrow, start figuring out what we're going to do."

He doesn't ask about Andrea; last he'd heard, the infection had set in something fierce; he ain't exactly been lookin' for updates.

"About what?"

"About how we're going to move on, and who of us will be going."

"'kay."

"You need to figure out some way to give a damn." Sasha finally says, the patience gone from her voice. "He's gone, and I hate it. And I'm not going to give you platitudes over what he would or wouldn't want us to do, but hear me out. Dwight's going to need some help for a while. And there's Carl to think about; he's doing all right, all things considered, but he's still a kid. Who's family is stuck with a thousand others on a shitty rock light years away, and _they_ need our help. And for all that, _I'm_ going to need _your_ help. It can't all be down to me." 

He nods. She's right. He just doesn't know how to give a shit about _giving a shit_. 

Paul's gone, and they're all just supposed to move on and function somehow. And at some point, he probably will; ain't like the world hadn't done them the kindness of ending. 

He just doesn't know why he should fucking bother trying, right now, or even what that means. Nothin' they do is gonna count for anything anyway. 

"I know," he tells her, stomach in knots. "I'm workin' on it."

For the next hour, after Sasha leaves, all he can do is feel like shit about shovin' it all off on her. 

In the end, the only reason he drags his ass up off the bunk is that it's starting to get near dinner time. Ain't that he's hungry; he just doesn't want Carl to come back in here to find him in the same fucking slump he'd been in this morning. So he heads down to the laundry to find some clothes from the free pile, takes a shower, and mends the visible cracks as best he can.


	8. Chapter 8

_Sunday, 10/05/2149, 21:03_

Paul's dreams are strange, all wrong, and when he realizes they've ended and that this, here, is wakefulness, the world doesn't settle in around him the way it should.

He's not cold. He _remembers_ being cold, soaked through and choking on it. Coughing and gasping for air that had clawed its way down his throat and into his chest, trying to rip him apart. 

The soil's hard-packed and damp and sticking to his face, and when he opens his eyes, something tells him to go slow, be careful. 

It's dark out, but there are flickering shadows out past the strands of his hair, the sense of something moving. There are voices chittering behind him- words maybe, but they're not making any sense. 

If he moves, he'll be seen. 

He doesn't know why he's frightened of that. 

\--- 

"Sleep still." 

Another voice, like it's answering a question. "Yes false."

"Wake him."

He cringes the moment the hand lands on his shoulder, and it flits away, quick as it came. There's no sense in continuing the ruse. 

"No hurt but up."

Taking a breath and letting it out as smoothly as he can manage, he opens his eyes, balling his hands into fists as he shoves himself up into a sitting position; there's a wave of heat at his back where the voices had been, and he turns his neck first, then twists, slowly, to face it. 

It's fire, huge and hot and close enough that it hurts his eyes. It doesn't smell like burning plastic, but he's not sure it's any safer. 

There'd been an attack, he remembers, with a dazed, half-awake detachment that probably ought to concern him. Soldiers, bullets and smoke, Dwight up on the trailer and Daryl out in the field. Tomas's blood in the dirt and the sheer fucking _terror_ of a plane bearing down on them, guns tearing up the soil. He remembers running, and falling, and not being able to avoid it. Not being able to do anything at all. 

His ears are ringing.

The three people standing on the other side of the fire are tall and underfed, dressed ghoulishly in black, but they're not attacking. Yet. They're not soldiers, but he thinks maybe that he's been captured. 

He doesn't know what that means. 

The tallest of them is a woman, her severely-cut fringe mirroring her narrowed eyes and flat mouth. 

"Fished you there, kept you here," she says plainly, almost deadpan. 

A wave of dry heat brushes his face and he has to blink, wondering if he's hearing her right. "Where's here?"

Her eyes bore through him like she doesn't like the sound of his voice. "Nowhere now here. Disappointing."

He nods, not understanding but agreeing with her all the same, and lets himself stare at the fire some more. Of all the things that are making him uneasy, at least _that_ isn't moving any closer. 

"I was at a camp," he says, when his eyes start to sting. "Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Found trail between roads and waste no follow." Whatever that means. "You hurt?"

He barely has the energy to shrug, but he doesn't let on. 

"Head and throat. But ok." His own clipped tones seem wrong and awkward, but he doesn't get the sense that they'd appreciate him going on long drawn-out tears that he frankly doesn't have the energy for. "Paul Rovia," he says. "Who are you?"

"Jadis." The woman says, then nods her head to the woman on her left, then the man on her right. "Tamiel and Brion."

"Are you SA?" The words are out of his mouth before he can overthink them, but it brooks almost no reaction. He thinks he almost catches the quirk to her mouth before she shakes her head. 

"No. People." 

"Okay..." The blanket shifting down his arm is a welcome distraction, up until he realizes that it's too close to his skin. 

He's not wearing a shirt. It doesn't, now that he's aware of it, feel like he's wearing _anything_ under the blanket, but he's not sure what'll happen if he shifts to check. Instead, he hefts the blanket quickly back up over his shoulders, clutches it to him it more tightly. 

His skin crawls at the muddled memory of hands on his skin. "My clothes?"

She gives a quick nod, though no hint of where they might've gone. Dwelling on it could be the kind of thing that will push this into even stranger territory, so he asks, "Jadis, right? Did you see any soldiers? Other people?"

"Wait for dragon fire to stop burning."

"I'm sorry?"

"Only scorched earth," the man, Brion, adds, clarifying little. "No prize many tracks."

"How long ago?"

"One two."

"Hours?"

Brion shrugs. 

_Shit_. The others have to know that he's missing by now. They're probably looking for him already, or will be when the sun comes up. 

At least sunrise happens quickly, down here. 

"Which way?"

Jadis points off to the side, past the edge of the clearing and into the dense stand of trees which, now that he's looking, completely surround them. Then she shakes her head, raising her hand and curling her fingers towards her. 

He's not sure what she wants him to do, or why she wants him to come over there- possibly through the fire, he'd read a story about people doing that, once- and he's trying not to let his apprehension show when suddenly there are two more people flanking him from behind.

One sets down a bottle and a bowl; the other, a rough cloth.

"Eat and clean hurt. Warm sleep." Cocking her head to the side, she narrows her eyes against the smoke, or maybe she's just studying him. "This place is safe tonight." 

When Paul nods, she nods back, then raises her left hand. Flicking her fingers out, she turns and begins to follow Tamiel and Brion into the woods. The two people bracketing him, never quite seen, break off and retreat smoothly enough that he's reluctant to turn to track their movement. 

They don't seem quite human. 

It doesn't take long for the sounds of their footsteps to fade into the forest, but he'd be surprised if someone, somewhere, hadn't stayed behind. Watching him from just out of sight. 

He holds still. Unsure what they're watching him for, he doesn't move, just in case they're waiting for him to give them cause to attack. He just fidgets with the cloth and stares at the fire until his smoke-dried eyes start to ache. His eyelids feel like sandpaper when he tries to close them. 

It takes far too long for them to water at all, and when it all sets in, then far too long for them to stop. He doesn't know what any of this is or who these people are. He's sitting on the ground, huddled naked under this blanket, and he doesn't know- 

-he cuts himself off with a breath. He doesn't know what to _do_ , here, but crying probably- showing this much weakness- isn't the best idea. 

At least they'd given him a blanket. And instructions. Eat and sleep. Maybe that's it, maybe it's just that simple. Maybe in the morning, this won't be so terrible. 

The stones at the fire's base seem to be keeping it from creeping any closer, though he's not sure, yet, about putting his back to it again. Instead, he forces his attention to the stew they'd brought him. It's lukewarm, but under the strange, not-quite-good taste of the herbs, he recognizes carrots and potatoes. He's so busy being relieved by that that he's surprised when he raises the bowl to find it emptied. 

The water tastes like water, even if it feels different in his mouth- thicker, heavier, somehow- but he only takes a few sips before wetting the cloth and prodding at the grit on his face; it's scraped and hot when he touches it, and there's a raised welt on his neck that goes down his chest. Nothing's bleeding, currently. 

The air's chilled, though, so he hefts the blanket back up over his shoulders again and promises himself that he's okay for now. 

He's just sitting here, alone, _on Earth_ watching the largest fire he's ever seen burn itself down to nothing. He's listening hard at every sound in the trees and trying not to watch. 

These people are weird enough, there's no reason to let them know just how far out of his depths he really is. In the morning, when the sun's up and he can see what he's dealing with, he'll figure out a plan. He'll get back out to the road, make his way back to the camp and go from there. 

Wherever the road is. 

The fire's burnt itself down to embers before the thought occurs to him that he could find something to prod it with, keep it going longer; that's what they did in the books and vids, anyway. He stands up, waiting to see if the movement garners any attention, and swallowing his unsure disappointment when it doesn't. 

He's in a small clearing, surrounded by trees, though he can only see a few yards in any direction. 

Wandering around exploring, wearing nothing but a blanket- not even any shoes- is probably a recipe for disaster, and for all he knows, Jadis and her people had planned it that way. On top of that, he doesn't have his bearings, here; now that the fire's burning down, he could probably lose even that much of a reference point, going too far. 

So he stays close, tries to stay warm, and listens carefully for any movement out in the woods. 

There are sticks, here and there, and, only a few feet from where he'd been sitting, a small stack of heavier pieces. 

The logs send up more smoke than fire, at first, but every time he prods at them, a shower of sparks rises up, threatening to catch. For a while, he pokes experimentally at the embers with a stick, sure that he's doing it wrong, increasingly convinced that Jadis and her people are watching from the trees, laughing their weird, monotone asses off. 

Finally, though, a thin splinter of bark catches, and the fire follows it to creep up over the top corner of the log before starting, finally, to grow. 

The scrape on his face cracks open as he grins, the skin hot and too dry, but there's nothing to be done for it. He's on Earth. He's mastered _fire_ , and in the morning, he's going to find his way back to the road, catch up with the others, and they're probably not going to believe _any_ of this. 

A lot of them, he realizes suddenly, probably aren't _alive_ to believe any of this. 

There'd been an explosion. Maybe two; he'd been running, and there'd been a deafening wave pushing him from behind, punching at his spine and flinging him off of his feet. He'd landed, he thinks, but then he'd just kept _falling_ , no time to stop, to grab hold or even turn around and shout, and then-

-water. Choking. _Drowning_. 

But he's alive. And Jadis and her people, whoever they are, are responsible for that.

They're just not _his_ people. He doesn't know where he is, or what's happened to everyone else. 

They're not _here_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (See Neeka? Everything’s fine!)


	9. Chapter 9

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 11:20_

The noise of other people isn't always loud, but it tends to bounce off the concrete to jab into his skull, and it's _constant_.

He needs to get away from it, just for a while.

Carl ain't as interested in goin' outside as he'd been back at the base. He just asks when he'll be back and looks relieved when Daryl doesn't push it. 

"Visiting hours are at two," he hears himself confirm, uncomfortably aware that Carl's probably expecting him not to show, mostly because he doubts that he will. He hadn't meant to lie about it yesterday. It's just, after they'd gotten toured around the place, he'd gotten back to his bunk, and his brain had just _stopped_ for a while. He hadn't managed to drag himself up, hadn't managed to respond to much of anything. Dimly, he remembers the shelf of games they'd passed in the library. "I'll grab the cards on my way in or something."

He walks along the catwalk, nodding at the people whose gaze he can't avoid, taking more comfort than he should in the fact that in here, surrounded by strangers, none of them really give a shit about what might be going through his head. 

Checking out isn't nearly the big deal he'd thought it would be. Just writing his name on the dingy paper at the desk. They don't even have the fence outside closed up any more. A huge section of it along the back's been converted to trellises for growing berries and shit. Volunteers are out working the gardens; the yards filled with people exercising and doing PT. He has to go out a lot farther than he'd figured to get any quiet, and then even farther just to get _alone_ for a goddamned minute. 

There's no trees to speak of out here, aside from the rows cutting across the slope between the fields. It's another mile in any direction before there's anything taller than grass anywhere. Good view of the road, too. 

So he just walks as far away from that as he can- at least this far out, he'll see someone else coming with plenty of time- and winds up sitting down in the grass, back to the prison hospital. It's overgrown, dried and scratchy against his arms; the sensation's as irritating as it always had been, but the familiarity is so fucking distracting that he's wondering what Paul would think of it before he can stop the thought from forming. 

The grass probably ain't tall enough to completely hide him from view. He doesn't really give a shit, because his chest is caving in and his entire face is locked up too tense to even cry right because Paul's _gone_. 

It's not like he was planning on dragging him out to show him a bunch of overgrown grass and asking him, _"So, plants. What do you think of them?"_ Just. He would've been mildly curious, if it ever come up as an aside on their way to wherever the fuck they were going. 

And now it ain't gonna. 

There ain't gonna be any more conversations. No more late-night honesty, no more punch-drunk bullshitting. No more listening to him at the dinner table, tugging at the threads of problems and weaving them back into something manageable.  
No more listening to him laughing or bitching or worrying _at all_.

Because Paul's dead. Not even a body, anymore. Just a silent pile of ash. 

Daryl had overheard Siddiq and one of the local doctors, this morning, talking about the concentration of heat, and how fast it would've happened, like they'd been tryin' to talk themselves into the notion that nobody would've suffered. 

He wants to agree, but. There would've been an instant of all-encompassing pain. Maybe enough time to recognize it for what it was, maybe enough time to register the thought that _this is the thing that will kill me_. Even if it had been instantaneous, the bombing, bullets, and fire leading up to it had been terrifying. 

Nothing about Paul's death had been merciful. 

Daryl takes a breath, scrubs at his face. Cries for another minute or so before he manages to get enough air in to fake some kind of steadiness. It holds for no more than a few seconds before the tremors set in again, and he's winding himself tight again just to ride it out. 

They'd come here thinking they'd be able to change some minds, gather some resources, and save the colony. Less than a week, and Earth's backhanded them down to pointless nothing without even giving them the illusion that they'd be able to do anything to stop it. They can't even get back on their ship and return home with their tails between their legs, because that's gone, too, and all he can see is the days stretching out ahead of them, each one filled with the absolute knowledge of their failure. Of the thirty people in the camp, they'd lost sixteen, and it's amazing that they didn't lose more. 

The attack could've killed every single soldier, though, and Daryl wouldn't have cared, if Paul'd been spared. 

He won't let himself think any further along that line, because he's not sure who else's lives he'd willingly trade to have Paul back. 

\--- 

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 14:58_

He'd scrubbed his face and found somethin' to eat, and he figures he's close enough to' bordering on human as he heads over to the infirmary. 

Carl looking at him in surprise when he arrives in the waiting area, though, means he has to bite down on the scowl he wants to shoot back at the kid; thankfully, Carl's attention's drawn by the group heading in to visit the babies they can hear crying down the hall. A pair of what Daryl presumes to be doctors comes through the door, quietly and tiredly arguing. 

"-don't give a shit about what Atlanta says," the taller of the two says, rolling her eyes as she pulls back her hair. "They want us to bolster the ward, we need supplies that aren't scrounged up and two years out of date."

"Yeah," the shorter one asks, opening the side door- the babies' crying is louder for an instant, but drowning in adult laughter. "But did you hear the rest of it? Funding-"

His voice cuts off with the rest of the noise as the door closes, and Sasha shrugs at him, neither one of them wanting to predict what it might mean out loud. This outpost is only a day or so from Atlanta. If NATOPS can't adequately support operations here, Daryl doesn't want to think what the odds are for them helpin' out the colony. 

But now ain't the time to get into it. 

It's another five minutes before a woman with gray-streaked hair comes out, calling for Dwight's party. 

The back corridor is a lot busier than the waiting area had been, and it's a little surprising to find that they've set Dwight up in a private room. 

Dwight's dressed and sitting up, but even that much looks to be the result of some negotiation; beyond that he looks washed out and irritable, though he smiles when Sasha leans in to kiss him hello. He's probably bored out of his mind.

 _Shit._ He'd forgotten the cards. 

"How're you-" Carl starts, and breaks off awkwardly, but Dwight turns his head at his voice, so he continues, pointing at him with a scowl and a shrug to emphasize the question. "How are you doing?"

"Missing some things. Can kind of hear but it comes and goes, still nothing on the higher pitch. Ringing in ear. Bad headaches." He twitches a stack of rough-hewn paper filled with doctor's handwriting; mostly just questions about antibiotics, from what Daryl can tell at a glance. "They want to wait a few more days, see if things settle out. It's better than it was yesterday. Still want me on fucking bed rest, though."

"How's it been in here?" Sasha asks.

It must take him a minute to fill in the blanks because she looks like she's about to ask again when he shrugs. "Boring as hell. Least I'm catching up on sleep. How's it out there?"

"All right, considering," Sasha replies, and Daryl seconds her with a nod. Carl opens his mouth, then reaches out for one of the papers, looking around for something to write with. 

"What," Dwight smirks, and truth be told, it's a relief to see. "You got an essay or something?"

Carl laughs, then shrugs as he begins to write. In the meantime, though, the silence feels awkward. Daryl doesn't know what he's supposed to say, or where exactly he should be standing.

While they wait for Carl to finish, Dwight scoots over so Sasha can sit next to him and turns his attention to the books she's brought with her from the trading post by the laundry room. Finding the them close enough to worthwhile to tell Sasha thanks, Dwight glances up at Daryl, then past him to the door. "Any idea what the plan is?"

Daryl shrugs. "Soon as you're good to go, we're probably heading out." Either Dwight can make it out, or he's catching enough of it to fill in the blanks, or this is just the most predictable conversation it's possible to have; Daryl's not sure. 

Finally, Carl's finished with his essay, which he hands over. By the time Dwight's done reading the half page, he looks more tired than he'd been, and the page is folded away and shuffled to the bottom of the pile. Any comments he's got are clearly for Carl, and even that ain't a sure thing. 

The four of them manage small talk for a while longer; the babies crying isn't disturbing him too much, the food in the mess ain't any better or worse than in here, everyone here seems cool and Dwight figures that his doctors are better than he could hope for, even if he's not sure what the point of spending all his time in here beyond sleeping too much. He's decided that Siddiq, who's still been stopping by, is a traitor because he's doing nothing to argue the point the doctors in charge. 

The only topic Daryl can really come up with is to ask him whether he knows anything about working on trucks; the question's detailed and long enough, as he digs down into the details, that it seems best to write it down. The answer's easy enough that all Dwight has to do is apologize with a shake his head. Once they've drained _that_ matter dry, the pauses between words start to stretch out. So, with the promise of cards tomorrow, he and Carl- third and fourth wheels that they are- leave the two of them in peace. 

\--- 

As they're heading back to the cell block, it occurs to him to ask Carl what he'd written, but he doesn't really want to know, and if Carl had wanted everyone hearing it, he probably would've just said.

"You doin' all right?" He asks instead. 

Carl shrugs as they pass by a couple of men pushing a hospital bed down the hallway, and waits until after they've passed to scratch at his eye patch. It's only been a few days since Siddiq sent him back with the new one; already it's looking dingy. "Long as I don't sit still too long, yeah. You?"

"Same here," he says, figuring it a close enough approximation of the truth. 

Carl doesn't call him on it, just starts rambling about the soccer like it's an actual concern. "You know how to play?"

It ain't all that different than the ball game Carl grew up playing on the quad, but that's as far as his knowledge carries him. "Think it's just on a bigger field. Don't really remember the rules, though. Why d'you ask?" 

"This kid, Shawn, he stopped over earlier, asked if I wanted to join in this afternoon, 'cause now there are enough people for two teams or something."

"That's good," he nods, clamping down on the thread of a whole new sort concern that hadn't yet occurred to him: how Carl's going to cope with Earther kids. "Gonna go?"

Another shrug. "Thinking about it. Not sure what else there is to do, you know?"

He wonders what Rick's opinion would be, and then, five steps later, he's already deciding that at this point, it really doesn't matter. And it ain't like the kid's asking for or needin' his permission. He figures he knows what Rick would say, though, so he goes with that. "Want me to come watch?"

There's a telling pause before Carl replies, and he doesn't turn to look at him. "If you want. Or don't have anything else to do... I don't know that it's really that big a deal."

"Want me to just leave you to it for a while?" They round the corner and head into their cell block, and almost immediately Daryl notices him nodding at a group of teenagers loitering on the steps. A few of them are messing with a radio, and the sight of it has him looking twice. It's not one of the NATOPS-issued field units, more like the beat up old one he used to keep in the truck because he couldn't be bothered to fix the stereo. The thing's got to be ancient. 

"Kind of?" Carl cringes, then, quickly- and ridiculously apologetically- adds, "I mean, if that's cool, it's just-"

"Fuckin' weird to be showing up like you need a babysitter?"

Another guilty cringe, but then he smirks into a ghost of a grin, and it's such a goddamned relief that he really wishes Rick _was_ here, just to see it. "Kinda, yeah."

Carl's smart, he knows his way around people, and he knows how to handle himself, and if he's wanting to go just be a normal fucking teenager for a few hours after all the shit these past few months, so much the better. 

There's a familiar burst of static from the steps, but it gives way to a woman's voice, cheerfully announcing that it's 3:00 standard. She's gonna play a request for someone named Ian before getting into the roads report, and she's reminding the listeners to tune in for the six, nine and twelves as well. 

It's not normalcy that slams down on him, not exactly. More like a sudden realization that things he had neither remembered nor expected still exist. The song's annoying, though- some upbeat bullshit about living on easy street- and he shakes himself. 

"It's cool, you go do your thing. If I ain't upstairs or in the mess, later, I'll be out front."

Carl's already half a step from heading towards the others, but he looks up, warily concerned. "Doing what?"

"Figure I'd go take a look at that busted up vehicle he'd heard everyone talkin' about this morning," he says, only really deciding on it once the words are comin' out of his mouth, but Carl might be onto something. 

Working on the ambulance- getting out and _doing something_ \- won't be a permanent fix, but it'll cobble shit together enough to get by for just a while longer.


	10. Chapter 10

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 06:18_

The fire's long since burnt out and the sun moves too fast, here, so he doesn't know long it's been since the need to relieve himself first made itself known. 

Could be that it's just the embarrassment dragging the minutes into hours. It's not like he doesn't know how to piss, it's just... 

It's just so open and _exposed_ , here, no walls and no ceilings, no privacy. There are probably manners or cultural assumptions for this sort of thing, but he's never needed to know them; standing up and finding a place to take care of it just seems wrong. And Jadis' strange people, who'd already stripped him naked, are probably still watching him from the trees somewhere. The thought of calling out to ask for help over something young children figure out before they learn to read is humiliating enough.

Assuming that they're even still _there_. 

They'd taken his clothes and they'd left him alone. 

He's stiff and sore under the miserable huddle of the blanket they'd left him, but in the pre-dawn chill it's the only shelter he's got, so he keeps it wrapped tightly around him as he forces himself to just _stand up, already_. 

The movement brooks no reaction from the trees; nobody takes notice what he's up to. It's a relief, only until he's walked a few yards and relieved himself against an unassuming tree. Because then, blanket re-secured, he lets himself survey what he's already started to suspect. 

It's light enough, now, to see a few yards past the edge of the clearing and into the trees before the tangled underbrush becomes a dark featureless mass. But there's no movement, no sound but what he's been hearing for the past few hours. 

He's completely alone. 

His clothes are draped over a fallen tree trunk, though, a few feet from where he'd been sleeping. They're not quite dry, but they're _his_ , and they're the only things on this whole planet right now that he doesn't have to question. Throwing them on as efficiently as he can while keeping the blanket over his shoulders, he keeps one eye on his surroundings, despite the sinking feeling that it's not necessary. 

His thermals are cold but the coveralls feel heavy, and he's embarrassingly glad for the armor-like weight. A little of the wounded-animal bullshit that's been worming through his head dissipates, and it's a little easier to consider his situation. Not all of it, not yet- he doesn't know enough for that- but this, here, in the clearing. 

Maybe they hadn't gone far, maybe they went the other way to camp on the other side of that rise, there. Maybe they're just cautious of strangers. 

Maybe they're just late sleepers, he reasons, thoroughly enough to stop himself from calling out. 

His boots are still damp. They're gritty, cold and hard against his bare feet when he pulls them on, so he glances around to see what's become of his socks, and notices the backpack sitting propped up on the other side of the stump. It's dirty black, similar to the green and tan ones he'd seen strewn over bunks in the camp, but it's not his. 

He doesn't know if he should touch it. Nobody had hadn't mentioned leaving it for him. Or hell, maybe they had, amid the rest of their nonsensical chittering last night. 

Jadis hadn't mentioned his clothes either, though, and the pack's been left right there next to it all. He takes another glance into the trees for any sign that he's about to make a mistake, but there are no angry voices shouting at him for his presumption, so he hauls it up onto his lap and starts rummaging. 

The pocket on the front contains a folding knife and a half-full box of bullets. There's also a small liquid-filled cylinder with a button and a gear stuck on the end; there's a safety catch underneath the button, and a _keep away from children_ warning embossed in the plastic- probably some kind of explosive device. Everything but the knife, which he pockets, is hastily repacked. 

The front compartment contains a surprisingly large sheet of green nylon fabric, wrapped around a box of Strike Anywhere Matches and an opened package of NATOPS Emergency Issue Firestarters, complete with torn but still legible instructions.

In the main compartment, he finds cloth-wrapped bread, some fruit, and two of the largest carrots he's ever seen in his life. There are a few dry strips of something that tastes salty and meaty, wrapped in dingy paper; an experimental bite proves that they're far too tough to chew. At best, they need rehydrating; at worst it's not even food. Either way, at least nobody's around to witness him trying not to choke on it. There's a jar with a strainer under the lid, and a dingy bottle of sterilization tablets, presumably for water. There's a well-used first aid kit, mostly picked over, a toothbrush that may have been used, and, packed tightly into the bottom, some clothes. A thick brown shirt with a hood, and two pairs of dry socks. 

He's not sure how long he sits there, staring at them. By the time he's undressed enough to get the socks on his feet, the sun's moved again, enough to start casting sharp shadows against the ground, and that's when he sees it. 

There's an arrow etched into the soil next to the burnt-out fire, sharp and definite. It's pointing back out into the trees, like the answer to the question he hasn't even formed yet. It's pointing at nothing, at least not at first glance, but gradually, he starts to notice the broken glinting streaming through them, like a procession of sharp lights. 

Or like Earth's sunlight cutting onto water. 

The small zippered pocket on the main compartment flap crinkles when he closes it again; inside he finds a note, sloppily written. _People move quickly,_ it says, with no punctuation to indicate whether it's a directive, or just a general statement. No goodbye, no indication that they'll be returning, explanation for anything. 

He doesn't know, really, why he thinks they owe him one, but he'd trade the pack and everything in it for some indication of what the fuck he's supposed to _do_ , now. 

But wanting doesn't mean deserving, after all. And sitting around here feeling sorry for himself isn't going to get him any less lost. So he fights his feet back into the boots and rolls up the blanket; this he straps awkwardly to the pack, because he's seen people here do that, too. 

Taking one last look around the clearing, he sets off in the direction the arrow's pointing, and starts walking.

\--- 

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 07:20_

The river isn't that far away, now, and the glimmering's been getting stronger with the sun's ascent into the sky, but there's no trail, just dense underbrush and sharp branches that scrape at his arms as he passes. It's a mild irritation at first, until he notices the blood welling up and the mild burning setting into his skin; the scrapes on his face start to inch in sympathy. 

He doesn't know if any of these plants are poisonous and he doesn't have any way to look it up. Best he can manage is to walk gingerly, avoid what he can, and rinse his arms off when he gets to the water; he's close enough that he can hear it now. He can hear birds, too, though he hasn't seen one yet. 

And then, before he's really prepared for it, his field of view opens up and he's standing surprisingly close to the river's edge. He's alone here, too, but there's a familiarity that he's quick to latch onto, and a few things are starting to fill themselves in. 

This is probably where they'd found him. Or nearby, given the state of his clothes, the mess of footprints in the sandy mud, and, not least, the corrugated piece of NATOPS camp-wall plastic lodged against the riverbank. It's half submerged, forming a ramp that the water rushes up before spouting onto the damp ground, where it's already cutting a channel back to the river. 

The sight of it is ridiculous and seems out of place, but it's convenient. He digs the jar and one of the tablets out of his pack and fills it up, blinking against the spray, and then he's twisting the lid on when the gut-punched panic of _smoke and fire and gunshots and too much sky and falling and strange hands on his naked skin and where is everyone why-_ twitches through him so hard that he drops the jar onto the muddy bank. 

For a minute he just listens, and breathes. Nothing's changed when he opens his eyes. The jar, at least, is still there in the mud.

He's doing what he can. He's going to follow the river back, he's going to find his people and it'll be okay. 

Or maybe not, but it'll be better than this. It has to be. 

\--- 

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 07:56_

The ground is uneven under his feet. There are birds- he sees three different kinds. He tells himself he's checking the river for fish, not that he'd know what to do with one if he saw any.

He doesn't, but he doesn't find any bodies, either. 

There are bugs that find him, though, as he hikes. They sweep past his ears, prick against the sweat of his neck, and sometimes catch themselves in his hair. None of the sensations are pleasant. He doesn't even know if he's spending a larger amount of time than is usual swiping them away.

It's faint, at first, the scent of sickly burning plastic, but it's familiar. He's following it as much as he is the river's edge. They lead him around a heavily-treed bend and then, just as the ground's starting to rise ahead of him, he spots the bridge.

It's a lot taller than he'd thought it was. 

He can't hear anything over the rushing river on his left. He can't see anything, either. No guard patrol, nobody idly looking out over the barrier to distractedly notice his approach.

They're probably just maintaining a tighter perimeter in the wake of the attack. They're probably trying to set things to rights, see to their wounded. It's only been a day, he's decided, since it happened. There would still be dozens of people to sort out, but most of them NATOPS. They'd have protocols for this kind of thing, and pulling their people in tighter would just make strategic sense. So not being able to see anyone from down here is no cause for alarm. 

He's panting by the time he reaches the embankment that'll take him up to the the bridge; his head starts to throb as he runs the last hundred or so yards. By the time he's climbing the hill, he can't hear anything at all over his own heart pounding in his ears. 

And finally, he's grasping the rail, hauling himself up the last few feet, and looking out over the camp to find nothing at all. 

\--- 

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 08:29_

There's a black oval burnt into the ground, surrounded by pools of half-melted tent debris. Up to his right, he can make out the comms station, razed almost down to nothing. Between them, the yard's rutted up with wheel marks so badly that a wide swath of it's been scraped bare. 

But there are no trucks, no RV, no _people_. 

More than three dozen people, just _gone_ , and he doesn't understand _how_. 

\--- 

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 09:11_

He shouts himself hoarse. He searches the remains of the complex for any signs of life, for any clue that would tell him what happened; he finds neither. 

At least Jadis and her people had left him a fucking note before they'd abandoned him.

The kitchen truck is still there, mostly merged into the crackling, stinking swath of plastic it had once bolstered. The blue plastic shell's been cracked open, but the contents are already picked over; In the wreckage he manages to find a canister of what he's pretty sure is coffee, along with a large can of _something_ , but the labels are singed off.

When he crawls back out, he starts looking, without much hope, for anything like a blaster, or one of the guns they use down here. There's nothing in his pack to fire the bullets Jadis' people had left him, and no instructions on how to use the small explosive device. His knife is the only thing he thinks he knows how to use, though using it as a _weapon_ isn't something he's practiced. 

All he really knows, in the most dim and useless sense possible, is that nothing he has will stand up against whatever it is that he's up against, here. So he keeps his eyes peeled as he makes his way across the yard, giving the burnt earth a wide berth and tripping over dirt clods as he passes the exposed soil. NATOPS boots have tamped it down; the edges of their treads are still sharp and clear enough that the timeline he'd assigned for it- a day at most- still holds. 

There's debris in the field- not much, but just enough to prove to him that people have been there. There's a dirt-encrusted rifle, empty as far as he can tell; it's barrel is too large for the bullets he's got. A few paces away a motorcycle is lying on its side; he doesn't know how to ride one, but even he can tell that the metal holding the front wheel on is twisted, bent wrong. 

The space between the complex and the comms station seems more expansive than it had yesterday, and as he makes his slow progress across it, he keeps feeling eyes on him that aren't there. 

It's enough that all he wants to do upon reaching the comms station is hunker down and hide in what's left of the cover the remaining walls provide, but he forces himself to pick through it all. 

There's nowhere to sit, anyway. Upended metal desks and a broken chair, a computer terminal that's been blasted and picked apart. There's a net of metal that's leaning over the whole thing; it's heavier than the trellis's used for vines back home, but the look is the same. Unlike the trellises back home, though, this one's got a padlock sticking the door shut.

He knows, without really knowing, that it's what's left of Laura's cell. There are no remains to prove it. There are stains, though, that might be blood- hers or someone else's. 

Still, compared to the rest of the camp, the one standing wall behind it all is the only one left standing. 

If they'd had the time to write a note, this is where they would've left it. But there's not much paper. What little he does find is scattered out into the commons like dead forest leaves. They don't take long to gather up. 

Each page is printed up in codes he doesn't understand. 

So it's on him, then. He pulls the edge of the desk free of the fencing, and starts scouring its creakily opening drawers, and then the rubbled floor and the dirt outside, looking for something to _write_ with. 

He doesn't know what he'll say, but as long as he's looking, he doesn't have to come up with some other kind of plan. He won't have to _think_ , which means the holes in the stories he's writing in his head won't have to stretch and shred their way through the few hopes he's still trying to hang onto. 

They'll- the others, his people, _Daryl_ \- will be back soon.

There's a search party looking for survivors right now. If he stays close, they'll find him. 

His people wouldn't have left him behind, not easily. They would've tried, they would've fought. 

Right?

\--- 

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 10:03_

For Daryl and the others to pull together any kind of search party, they'd have to be alive to do it. 

\---

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 11:32_

The chair doesn't have legs anymore, but it's got a seat and a back, and, nestled into the grit of the grumbled foundation, at least he's got somewhere to sit. 

He's been at it for a while, now, sipping nervously at water, forcing one of the carrots down with the peanut butter he'd found, but it's getting harder not to think-

_There are no corpses littering the field. Someone had been alive long enough to dispose of the bodies._

-it's just getting _harder_ , sitting here under a sky that's too wide and a sun that's too fast and too bright. Looking out over the still, silent remains of the camp, trying to squint some other reality into existence. One where he knows what to do, or at least what to expect. 

He doesn't know how long he's been here, only that the shadow of the snapped radio tower has swerved since he sat down. He's watched it move from the comms station's most intact foundation to the wall panel corner-gouged into the earth a few meters away. 

The break is nearly halfway up the tower, though the wires and cables twisted up the sides form a joint at the break point. It looks like an insect's leg that had narrowly avoided the stomping boot that had splattered warped framing and wall panels out into the yard. 

There's no sign of anyone. Just the carcass of the camp and the tamped-down earth in the grass. It's the only indication that anyone alive had been here, and that someone had survived long enough to _leave him here_.

The desk- temporary, small, but sturdily built- is laid on its side thanks to his attempts to pry the main drawer open, lashed in torn wiring. Before his energy had started flagging, he'd started piling the shattered and bent pieces of equipment next to the upended legs. 

Even if he could fix it, he's lacking the tools and the power. 

It's an inventory of dead parts, already picked over when he'd arrived- and it looks like a shrine by the time he's scrounged everything there is to scrounge but it seems fitting. 

The soldiers hadn't left anything useful behind. Just him. 

\----   
_Monday, 10/06/2149, 12:01_

Not knowing what else to do, Paul walks the perimeter, keeps his eyes on the trees and dips down on the other side of the bridge, looking, despite himself, for anything at all. He tries not to breathe in the warm sick plastic smell of the burnt complex, lifting chunks of it here and there to see underneath. There are plates from the kitchen; he doesn't inspect the larger lump sitting off a few feet to the left. He retreats back to his shrine, sitting down against the desk's leg, and tries to summon up some sort of useful plan 

He doesn't know what time it is. Only that when the radio tower's shadow reaches the dirt clod a few feet to the right of him, it'll be time for him to go. 

He's waited, and nothing has changed. He's found nothing of use, and the only sign he's found telling him what to do next are the tire ruts in the earth between the lanes; they're pointing towards the city. 

\--- 

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 12:59_

Maybe he's just being impatient. Maybe he should just wait a little longer. But he's been sitting here for what must be hours, by now, treading the line between planning without thinking and thinking too damned much. 

Daryl'd warned him about it, how things were down here. There's a war on. He'd heard the soldiers talking about how long they could afford to wait for them to acclimate before heading out, and that was before the attack. Waiting- much less searching- for one one errant visitor probably doesn't rate high on the list. 

But. 

Daryl, Sasha, Dwight or Carl would've tried to look for him. He's as sure of that as he is of the fact that he doesn't want it to be true. 

In order for them to form any kind of search party, they'd need to be alive themselves. 

If they're dead, they're not looking. If they're alive, they haven't come looking. It all amounts to the same thing.

\--- 

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 13:36_

Even on the ship, light years from anything, there'd still been people around. He can see for miles, out here, down across the river valley until he loses it over the horizon. 

He kind of wants- kind of _needs_ someone to just appear out of nowhere and tell him what to do next. Or how to do it. Or where to _go_. If they wanted to tell him that things were going to be okay, he wouldn't mind that, either, because the panic's set so far into the back of his jaw that the only thing likely to open it will be a scream. 

At least here, there's a road to follow. It'll be easier going. 

And the sooner he gets going, he tells himself, the sooner he'll catch up to the others. 

\---

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 14:54_

Back at the camp, the ruts leading to the road are had pointed towards the city, and even if they hadn't, he needs supplies, information. Maybe a radio connection, if he can find someone. The city's the best place to do that. 

So he'd adjusted the straps on his pack, set off and started walking along the road; if the signs mean what he thinks they mean, he's following I-16. For the most part, it's just trees and water in any direction, but after about 15 minutes, he passes by a sign for Ocmulgee National Monument. Another half hour or so and he's walking into an actual Earth city for the first time. 

It's underwhelming, though the buildings are _tall_ here, some of them even reaching 5 stories. 

Most of the first buildings he comes to had been large and windowless, great big beige or gray _blankness_ on the landscape. Here, they're more varied, bordered here and there by grass or small stands of trees. The layout of these reminds him of the Techniki enclave, if they'd had more varied construction materials to work with and had no habit of cleaning up after themselves. The streets are wide and dirty.

And abandoned. 

He knows he's not supposed to be surprised by this, not supposed to keep being surprised by the sight of it at every turn, but there are bites taken out of buildings. Vehicles- cars and trucks- turned on their side like a child's forgotten playthings. Scraps of fabric that had once been useful, snarled and rotted tightly around the bars in the ground.

_Gutters_ , his mind manages to supply, but the sight of holes in the street is just _wrong_. Open at the top, they're barred by metal, but the rags and debris clogging the jail-cell openings look like limbs, trying to claw their way out from underneath. 

There's an _underneath_ to the streets, here. 

He doesn't get too close, and he keeps walking. 

He tells himself, every few blocks, that he just hasn't reached the living part of the city, yet. For all he knows, it could be one street away in either direction. Even if every intersection opens up on more of the same. 

\--- 

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 15:17_

He hears it, bouncing off the road and the buildings; it's quiet and steady but it carves a whole new fear into his chest and he can't find the source of it. 

Engines. Some sort of aircraft, maybe bearing down on his position, maybe scanning for him. 

By the time he spots it, though, it's small, and far away, moving away too fast to make out in any detail. 

It doesn't return, though he waits under the awning of a shop that had, at some point in recent history, sold bagels. As if he could ascertain the plane's meaning enough to know that revealing himself was safe or not. 

And once it's gone, he finds that he just can't move, for a while. 

\---

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 17:00_

Even with the clouds moving in, his feet feel heavy and hot inside his boots as he walks; whether it's river water or sweat, it doesn't really make a difference. 

Finally, he looks down a side street and notices something- maybe _someone_ skittering away over broken pavement in the distance. The sudden movement, out here among so much _stillness_ , is jarring, but he thinks better of calling out. The road is wide, here, where he's standing; it has to be safer. 

Gradually, though, the road narrows, closes in on the sides; all the roads are denser here, the buildings more tightly packed. He's been maintaining an un-turning path since he set out, following only the curves of the road as he picks his way into the city, having nothing else to orient himself by. Eventually, though, just as the sky begins to darken, the road stops at a wide wall.

Left or right. The choice has been inevitable for a while, but he's unprepared to make it. Maybe it's just the low light, and the illusion of closeness brought on by the incremental reduction of his field of view, but he feels, for sure now, that he's being watched. 

After what feels like a very long time, but which might be only minutes, he goes left, if only because the sky's a bit brighter on that horizon, and the road seems to widen up again, a few blocks away. 

If he remembers his orbits right, he's heading west. 

He's just not _certain_.

\--- 

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 18:09_

Maybe he should've gone east, it's just more of the same out here. Husks of broken-windowed buildings, each to still to be safe, the sounds of rustling grass and creaking hinges, a loud crack in the distance, followed by silence that never builds into anything visible. 

There are birds, though, gray and blue and brown. Usually noticing him before he notices them, he only sees them as they're flitting away. 

If there are people left in this city, they're doing the same thing. At this very moment, he's okay with that; in another five minutes, if he lets himself think about it, it'll freeze him up even more. 

\--- 

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 18:46_

There's a wide swath of grass, green going brown, to his right. More trees again. 

Through them, though, and up ahead, there's a light. It's small and flickering yellow, and he starts towards it before bringing himself up short. 

That light could be anything. 

It could be people- maybe _his_ people. Maybe not. 

\--- 

_Monday, 10/06/2149, 19:10_

He feels better, beneath the dark cover of trees, but only a little; mostly he's hungry, tired, and, now that the sun's disappeared, _cold_. The bridge here is low, all concrete and wood. Underneath is all concrete and a thin, weakly moving trickle of water. It's dry enough, and if he positions himself carefully, he can keep an eye on the light.

By the time morning comes, he'll have its position locked in his head. And maybe some idea of whether it's safe to approach. 

\--- 

_Tuesday, 10/07/2149, 06:01_

He'd eaten the other carrot, and more peanut butter, and he'd pulled the extra shirt and nylon cloth out to keep warm. He hadn't risked a fire, though, and the cold's sunken into his bones. He feels damp all over, and his joints are stiff and aching, and he _knows_ he should've worked up the nerve to find some better shelter. But the sky's lighter, now, casting everything in blue and gray and brown. 

The trees are not as densely packed as he'd thought, though; in the approaching daylight, his cover seems scant, and he needs to leave. 

He's packing up his gear- the pack, at least, had provided some insulation from the ground, though not enough to keep the damp chill out of his bones- when he sees it, barely, out of the corner of his eye. 

Movement, some thirty feet away, up in the air. 

A bird, or some other flying animal.

Some other _hovering_ animal. 

No. 

The buzzing rotors, the way it just _hovers_ , there. It's a drone.

The familiarity of it is welcome, at first, until he registers what its presence might mean: there are no membrane supports or irritation systems needing maintenance, here. He's being watched, he's being seen. 

It sweeps away, after a minute, only to swoop back, edging alarmingly closer,from another angle. 

He doesn't move. Doesn't retreat back underneath the paltry shelter of the bridge, doesn't lunge into a run, he just freezes, staring back at it. 

And then suddenly, there's a noise behind him, large and rattling and coming from everywhere at once. 

When he turns, he sees a large, bulky shape standing silhouetted against trees, one of which begins to sway as he moves. 

"Identify yourself," it says.

It's a pole, not a branch, and the man- it's a man, wearing a hood- adjusts his grip. The position looks defensive, but he's standing on higher ground. 

It could become an attack at any minute.


	11. Chapter 11

_Tuesday, 10/07/2149, 06:28_

Morgan, who hadn't mentioned whether it's a first or last name when they'd introduced themselves, tells him to go into the living room to sit down, so he takes a guess, picking his way around the coiled fencing and piles of wood towards a room that looks like someone could possibly use it. A moment later, Morgan's reappearing from around the other side of the stockpile- poncho and staff gone, for the time being- and passing him a glass of water.

Not wanting to startle the man, and unsure of this whole thing himself, Paul accepts it and sits down on the worn sofa, only setting down his pack down at his feet once Morgan sets his gear aside to lean against the doorway.

"So," Paul looks around, not really sure where to start, and notices the standard-issue boots Morgan's wearing. "Are you NATOPS?" 

"You ask that like it means something." He glances down at his feet, clearly aware of Paul's assessment. When he looks up, his scrutiny is seems even more sharp, though he doesn't seem irritated or angry. Just wary. Maybe a little amused. He's also, he realizes, blocking the door, though he's adjusting his stance, settling in against the flat wall like he wouldn't make any great effort if Paul tried to get past him. 

"Sorry, I... I'm not from around here. Kind of new to this whole thing."

"Whole thing?"

He shrugs, waves his hand around, not sure entirely what he's trying to indicate. Compared to the chilled dampness outside, it's warm enough in here that it's making him drowsy all over again. "Earth. Just got here from the colony a few days ago."

At this, Morgan straightens up in his seat, and Paul's ready to confirm that yes, he _is_ serious. Apparently, though, he doesn't have to.

"Was that you, then? South of town, with the ships?"

Probably. "I mean, yeah, we came in on one, yeah." The water's cool enough to condense on the side of the glass. "There was another one. SA. It attacked the camp."

Morgan narrows his eyes, drawing himself up. "SA doesn't _have_ ships."

"Well then _someone_ attacked a NATOPS encampment." Paul shrugs, more irritably than he means to. "We'd just landed there, were taking a few days to acclimate. Ambush came out of nowhere. Just people with guns and motorcycles at first, then a jet came through and fired on the camp."

"And your ship?"

The RV. _Shit_.

"I don't know," he manages, after a minute. With all the wreckage at the camp, he hadn't really thought about it, because it hadn't _been_ there. "I... I got knocked out, woke up somewhere else. Downriver. Had to make by way back on foot" Before that, he'd thought he was dying; he remembers falling. "I remember, we'd been trying to get on board...I think we were thinking if we could get the shields up, we'd be okay." Maybe they would've been, but it's best not to think about it, and Morgan doesn't look like that's what he wants to hear about anyway. "But yeah. The RV... er, that's our ship, we were trying to get on board. Think we thought activating the shields would help." He pauses, waiting for some relevant detail to fill itself in. "But it's all kind of a jumbled blur."

He remembers that he was trying to get away, he remembers the _panic_. He remembers seeing Daryl out in the open space, turning away from him, and the smell of burning plastic. And through the hazy dread that's creeping up on him now, things that he'd either not noticed or _not wanted_ to notice, yesterday, are suddenly becoming clear in his head.

The burnt earth, the gap in the space where the RV should've been.

Aside from the too-few remains of the flatbed truck, there hadn't been any wreckage. Not that it would be _better_ , obviously, seeing the pieces of it scattered across the grass. But at least he'd have context, rather than another unknown to add to the pile. 

There'd been no wreckage, which means maybe it had gotten out. 

Maybe Dwight had managed to get in when Paul's back was turned, and-

-no. 

_No._ It had already been happening, the jet, that horrible hot _blast_ , and fuck, Dwight and Mitch, they'd been right there underneath- and Sasha hadn't been far either- when the RV's thrusters had engaged. 

And they shouldn't have been able to. They'd all taken turns piloting, but Mitch and Laura had been the only ones who'd really known how to get it airborne. Mitch had been right there on the ground with them, and Laura'd been locked up in the comms station, clear on the other side of the camp. 

"Hey," Morgan frowns, leaning into his space to catch his eye. "You with me?"

His head throbbing in retaliation, Paul forces his attention back to Morgan, wanting to be believed, but he can't think of a thing to say. 

Morgan lets the silence ride for a moment, then and scratches the back of his neck. His arm, Paul realizes for the first time, is encased in tech, but he can't tell what the controls or screen are for. "Heard about it 'round the way, thought it was just the usual NATOPS flyover. But attacking their own, that's not how they tend to roll."

Maybe, _somehow_ , Paul thinks, everyone had somehow managed to get on board. He's not entirely sure how it is that he'd gotten clear himself. He doesn't remember being ready to run, only the sensation of falling.

He shakes his head, suddenly aware of the welts his fingers are carving into the back of his left hand. It's only then that they start hurting, though with the wrench-induced nerve damage, it's probably not as sharp as it could be. 

"If it was our people on board the RV when it took, they'd be heading for Atlanta." It's the first thing past his name that he's been able to say with any real certainty since sitting down. So he's not really prepared for Morgan to shoot holes in his deductions so easily. 

"Atlanta's east."

So this is what he's left with: either the RV made it out with his people on board, and he has no idea where they are, which means he doesn't know what to do, where to aim himself. 

Or they're all just dead, caught up in the thruster burnout. Which means he doesn't know why he should even bother. With anything, really. 

"It was _supposed_ to be Atlanta," he can't help insisting, because it's the only thing that makes sense the way he wants it to. But he's well aware of how childishly whining the words sound. 

Morgan's not overt with his sympathy, for which Paul is grateful, but it's there in his eyes, just for a moment, before he nods to himself and steps away from the wall. 

"You got a radio?"

He shakes his head, ignoring the way it aggravates the headache he's got coming on, and moves to stand, but Morgan shakes his head and gestures for him to stay where he is. Saves him the effort of figuring out what he's supposed to do with himself next. 

"I have to go out for a bit. But feel free to stick around." Finally, there's a crack in the stone, enough for the man to smirk. "Sink's got water, if you want to clean up. Med kit's on the kitchen table. Sleep if you can. If you're still here come tonight, I'll radio Atlanta, see if they've seen or heard your people." 

He doesn't immediately slump back into the couch at this, though there's a part of him that wants to. There's another part of him, spiking up out of nowhere, that's just mortified at the relief the words bring. 

"Thank you," he says, too wrung-out to articulate how much it means, the offer of shelter, rest, and a plan, if not anything that resembles actual hope. "For everything." 

Morgan gives him a long, searching look as he resettles his poncho over his pack. "No problem," he says, drily, ducking out towards the kitchen door. 

And with that, Paul's alone again. 

\--- 

_Tuesday, 10/07/2149, 12:47_

He'd managed to sleep, for a while, and in the moments after waking up, reality hadn't reasserted itself into anything better than it had been, but somehow, it had all felt just a bit more manageable. 

Even so, he spends most of the morning on the couch, not sure, really, how far Morgan's hospitality extended past the sink and the kitchen table. 

He's an intruder, here- hell, he's an intruder everywhere- but he doesn't know how to be anything else right now. Though he probably should be. He just keeps getting distracted: if he stares at the motes of dust floating in the sunlight that's pouring through the window, he'll start thinking about air filtration and systems checks that need to take place light years away. If he thinks about _that_ , it bleeds into thoughts of Rick, up on the colony. Taking care of everything and probably wondering where his kid's at.

Every time he looks out through the window, down at the empty road, he imagines a convoy trundling along towards him, _looking_ for him. Then he has to remind himself not to fill in the faces too clearly. He doesn't know who among them is alive. 

He blinks, suddenly aware that time has passed, that his headache's gotten worse again, and that his face feels traitorously wet. 

He gets up and heads to the sink- the controls, at least, are familiar enough- and unleashes a cold stream of water to splash against his face. It drips down along his hairline, curling towards the back of his jaw where it's not caught by the beard that's starting growing in again. 

There's medicine in the kit, just as Morgan'd said. He doesn't recognize most of the labels, but the ingredients on the third bottle list anaprox as first among them; he takes two and swallows them dry before remembering the sink.

The apple Jadis had left him is soft on one side, but he eats it all anyway, rinsing it down with water. 

Washing up after himself, he realizes that really, he's accomplishing nothing by moping around. At at the very least, he should go out and explore the city some more. Maybe find some food to bring back, so he doesn't run the risk of putting Morgan out any more than he already has. 

Pulling his gear together, he decides, only at the threshold, to leave his pack behind, if only to alert Morgan, should he reappear in the meantime, that he intends on coming back. 

The clouds have rolled in and cool, fresh air stops him short the moment he steps outside. It's not for the first time, and only for a moment; he thinks he's getting used to the exposure. Maybe not enough to walk any farther than the intersection down the street, but it's a start. 

He'd been distracted on the way in this morning, not entirely certain that Morgan wasn't taking him hostage, and he'd kept his eyes to the ground. In broad daylight, nothing looks familiar, sounds familiar, _feels_ familiar.

Halfway to the intersection, he finds himself standing on the pale poured-concrete path in front of a shop, which, at one point in recent history, had sold bagels. The path- _sidestreet? No, that's not it_ \- follows the lines of the road, but he can't remember the term for it as he scuffs the heel of his boot along the manmade cracks. He knows he's seen them in vids before; he's probably come across them in books, too, not that anyone born here would bother detailing them in a novel.

Scanning the surrounding buildings for any signs of life, his scrutiny keeps catching on his own reflection in the window of the tire dealership across the street. The heavy brown shirt he's pulled on makes him look like a completely different person. The way his mirrored arms are folded tight against his chest, like he's frozen halfway to a full-body wince, seems entirely too-pointed: _this is you, now_. 

But he's established a reference point; the large yellow and red Tires Plus sign is the tallest thing on that side of the street. he can use it to navigate back as long as he's careful.

His feet have just started to move when the air starts to shake. 

Engines. _Aircraft_. 

Without thinking, he retreats quickly back towards Morgan's building, the sound carving a whole new blind fear into his chest even though he can't find its source. The rumbling noise bounces off the road and the bridges, making it come seemingly from everywhere all at once. 

From underneath the awning at the top of the steps, he brings himself to stop, turn and _look_. 

The plane is flying higher than the attacking jet had, barely visible at all. 

Letting out a breath and waiting for his pulse to slow, he watches the vapor trails dissipate, not really sure why it leaves him feeling homesick. Maybe it's just that he knows, up there, there's a small space with finite walls and an existence that he's tricking himself into believing that he understands. Maybe it's just that something that large needs someplace to land, one that has people and functioning infrastructure. 

Maybe just that it's moving at _all_ , like he should be doing, instead of staring at the sky and expecting the worst.


	12. Chapter 12

_Wednesday, 10/08/2049, 08:30_

Nothing's changed, and nothing's better, but at least Daryl's got something to _do_ now. 

"Back again, huh?" Bernice grins at him when he comes up to look at the volunteer clipboard. "You're giving it another shot?"

He nods. "Job still open?"

"Very funny," she rolls her eyes, passing him the pen from the cup on the side of her wheelchair; it's only been his name on this particular job for the past few days. "How's it coming along? Any luck yet"

"Not yet." 

The tattered notebook people've been using to track what they've tried and what hasn't worked has, so far, been useless, but he don't wanna say so. Near as he can tell, the first thing everyone seems to do is go back and troubleshoot the work of the person before. All they've really been doing, for the most part, is just modifying each other's mistakes.

So he'd started from scratch. 

\--- 

He hasn't worked on an actual _truck_ in years, now, and this one has battery cells that're probably older than he is, but he's starting to get a feel for it now that he's stripped out and replaced the efforts of several previous repair attempts. There'd been so much extra wire cobbling the whole damned thing together that it had been impossible to see what actually went where. 

The starter relay's worn out; when he checks the notebook, someone had gotten close to figuring out that much a few months back, but they'd thought it was the starter itself, and nobody else had bothered to fuckin' backtrack the circuit. The ambulance they've got on hand for parts has one that's compatible, but once it's started, it won't keep steady.

It takes him another hour to figure out that it's the idle control valve, and the spare ambulance's one is even more fucked up than the one he's trying to salvage. 

"Ain't nothin' for it, then," George, one of the old-timers who's come out to assist- and mostly to watch- shrugs, shaking his head pityingly. "Gonna have to go put in with requisitions."

He's heard of that, he's pretty sure. "Who do I talk to?"

"Whoever's working the radio up in the watchtower."

\---

_Wednesday, 10/08/2049, 11:05_

"-saying is if they've hit you once, and that hard- there's no reason to believe that they're not going to try again."

Rosita turns to look up at him when he gets into the radio control room, but holds up one hand for him to stay quiet. The older guy standing by the window- a civilian- nods at him with a tired kind of patience; he looks like he's been waiting for a while now. 

"Understood," she says, her voice not betraying her scowl. "Escort already radioed in, we should be seeing them today. I'll tell our guests to be ready to move out."

"All right then," the voice on the radio replies. "Report back if there are any delays, or if you get any local flyover activity."

"Will do. Over and out." Rosita switches the radio to an open channel and looks over at him. "What's up?"

"Working on the ambulance. Need an idle control valve for a Ford 850. 750 or 950 would probably work just as well too."

"Could be a few days." The guy shifts from the window frame- apparently he's who he needs to be talking to- as Rosita vacates the seat. 

"And it looks like we'll probably be gone by then," Rosita adds, none too brightly. 

He's surprised by how disappointed he is. Compared to everything else that's been going on, it really ain't worth it. "I'll leave a note."

"All right then, hold tight, it'll just be a minute." The man gets on the radio, switches to another channel. "Reclamation, this is tower one, you copy?"

Making room for Rosita, Daryl backs out through the door, going as far as the catwalk circling the tower. The guard he'd passed on his way in is still staring through her binoculars, giving neither of then any notice. 

"Everything good?"

"Depends on your friend Dwight," she sighs, passing by him and grabbing the rail to the stairs. "Brass wants us to bypass Atlanta and head straight out to DC. Escort's due to arrive in a few hours." Surveying the pool of armored vehicles, or maybe the soldiers lounging around them, she seems to be making a judgement call. "I'm guessing we'll to be wheels up tomorrow, if not tonight. That cool?"

Sensing that it really doesn't matter what he thinks, he just shrugs and nods. "Should probably check in with the others, though."

"Heading to do that now. Anything else you want me to pass on along the way?"

"Just. I'll see them after lunch. Got a bit more to do on the ambulance."

He watches Rosita disappear around the bend of the stairs, and turns his attention towards the unremarkable swath of land the guard seems to be surveying. There's something happening out there, people walking, maybe, but apparently it ain't any kind of threat. As if sensing his scrutiny, the guard glances back at him and shrugs. 

"Don't worry," she says, though he hadn't been. "Regulars. They've already checked in and cleared outer perimeter. I'm just bored."

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/08/2049, 13:09_

He's late.

He spots Dwight and Sasha by the infirmary entrance, where Dr. Gupta and Mario are holding court. From here, he can't quite hear what Sasha's saying, and he doesn't know sign language, but the audiologist's gestures and expressions seem calm and certain. Mario's signed responses, as he relays Sasha's words, are similarly smooth and relaxed. 

For all Daryl knows, he could just be projecting, making it all mean what he wants it to mean. He dodges around a group of teens carrying linens to join them, feeling like an idiot as he approaches. It's a weird combination of suspecting that he's interrupting, knowing that he's late, and being painfully aware of how awkward he'll probably make it in the unlikely event that anyone expects him to chime in on anything at all.

Sasha notices him first in her periphery; Dwight doesn't look over at him until she does, but he grins and nods. 

"Got some of it back," he says, loudly, before Daryl has to ask. "Shit's still ringing, though, and higher pitch is still just noise."

Daryl wouldn't know how to respond to that even if he was sure that everyone gathered could hear him, so he just nods, nods a greeting to the rest of them, and settles in to listen and watch. Besides, it quickly becomes apparent that the conversation's happening out here for everyone else's benefit, not just Dwight's. 

Dr. Gupta resumes where she'd left off, and Mario translates for the rest of them. "With conductive loss like that, you may benefit from some adaptive devices even if you do retain some hearing. However, we currently have none that will work with your kind of injuries. Atlanta is set up pretty well for that kind of thing, but they're hard to come by between here and DC." Mario watches Dr. Gupta for a moment, and then continues, "You may find that the George Washington University has some resources when you reach it. So, you'll need to check in there and see about the nerve damage, then work out a long-term strategy."

"Sounds good," Dwight shrugs, with a wary glance at Sasha; Mario nods and signs something for Dr. Gupta's benefit. The two of them make it look so easy- for them, it clearly _is_ \- but the notion of picking up sign language, when Daryl thinks about it, is daunting as all hell. 

Dwight seems to think so too, if the set to his jaw as he watches them is anything to go by. "We need to be ready to go as soon as the rest of the convoy is," he says, shaking himself as he glances at Sasha. "Not sure we've got the time right now."

Mario relays this to Dr. Gupta, speaking as she signs, and translates back. "That's okay, we're not in the business of forcing anything."

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/08/2049, 14:44_

It _is_ , however, Rosita's job to force things, per the orders she'd received from on high, though Daryl ain't sure anyone's seein' much of a difference. 

"Just. All this," Carl grumbles, "all the way to DC? We're not ready."

"Not sure how much more ready we're going to be able to be," Sasha points out. "Dwight's well enough to move on, the convoy's almost here."

That probably ain't the kind of ready Carl's talking about. 

Now that they're lookin' at actually movin' on, Daryl ain't so sure how to go about it neither. 

People might be mostly civilians, here, but it's still a prison. Overhead lights go off at ten. Food's on a schedule and even if it's opt-in, orders are given and carried out. And maybe that's part of the reason everyone's all flocked here. It ain't just the solid concrete walls affording them protection, it's the routine, the not needing to think about every little damned thing. But it does leave your brain open for thinkin' about all the shit you don't wanna be thinkin' about until you can't think past it, and he's got enough of that goin' on himself that it ain't too far a reach to figure that's what's goin' on with Carl. 

"Just don't know why we can't say what we need to say over the radio, is all. They got enough of them around here."

"We've got to pick our battles. They want to talk face to face, that's really not so bad."

Looking at Dwight, there's no way to tell if he's catching any of this, but he seems anxious, bringing up the obvious. "DC's a long way..."

"Not that much longer, and we've got more options for routes if anyone's looking for us," she shakes her head. "Look at it this way: if they're giving the order, then they must want to hear from you. You're skipping middle management." 

He bites his tongue deliberately. She don't need him chiming in with how pointless the trip's gonna be; they've already been dancing around it for months now. Either Colony One will collapse without supplies and resources, or NATOPS will swoop in and mine it to death like they'd been planning, because anyone who could've used their diplomacy or rank to drive the points behind their arguments home is gone. 

They're down to three nobodies and a kid- they're fucked. And the worst part is, right now, months and light-years out, the Colony's already only a memory. Out of reach and inaccessible. He just doesn't give a shit about _this_ place any more than he does that. 

So he pretends not to be aware of the fact that Carl's just started making friends, that the stability's probably good for him. Or that Dwight's still got some heavy shit to go through. He ignores the knowledge that they're leaving neutral ground for more easily targeted roads, or that as long as Carl and Sasha make it, he doesn't really care if he survives the trip or not. 

"Sounds good," he tells Rosita. "When do we leave?"

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/08/2049, 18:47_

With as sunny as it's been, the solar panels are undoubtably pulling in a fair amount of juice, but Sasha's a sweaty mess after spending the better part of an hour on one of the hospital's bike-powered generators. Then again, heating as much water as this place needs probably takes a lot more than he's guessing. 

Showered and dressed in his own _clean_ clothes again, he should probably thank her for her efforts, regardless of her motivations; at least she seems more relaxed now. Not grinning and dancing down the hallway, but her hair's escaping her ponytail, and she's not holding herself as stiffly as she'd been doing earlier. 

"Manage to wear yourself out?"

"Some."

"Hungry?" 

"Starved. Seen Dwight?"

Probably still in their quarters, where he'd sequestered himself immediately upon his release from the infirmary, though if she's heading over there anyway, she'll figure it out soon enough. He shakes his head, and Sasha sees right through him. 

"Still hiding out, huh?" It ain't like he'd asked him, but the fact that she has to raise her voice to be heard over the din of people heading down for dinner sees to explain it enough. She wipes her face on the sleeve of her borrowed shirt. "You mean what you said back there?"

He has to step forward to make room for the dozen or so people walking briskly by. They're dressed in black and gray, but they're not in any sort of uniform and they don't move like soldiers. But none of them are talking, and two or three of them stare at him hard. 

Sasha's hackles don't seem raised, though, so he shakes it off. "Back where?"

"With Rosita. About this whole DC thing sounding good."

"Ain't like I want to stay here forever." _So what's it matter?_

"...but?"

He runs his finger over the jagged end of his hangnail. "Not really seein' how NATOPS is gonna manage resupply missions when a joint like this is running on volunteers."

"Good point, hadn't thought of that." She laughs, exhaustedly. "Kind of wish you hadn't, either."

\--- 

It ain't until dinner that everything starts turning to chaos. 

On one end of the debate, Carl's still grumblin' about leavin' so soon; on the other end is Sasha, who's the most set on getting going as soon as possible. Dwight and him are somewhere in the middle. 

It makes for an awkward meal even before the boisterous crew stumbles into the commons. Immediately, the whole feeling of the place perks up, like a party's about to start. 

Dion, who tends to take the MC role in matters like this, is nowhere to be seen, so it's Mario who goes to intercept them, talking quietly and gesturing around the room. Apparently whoever these people are- and as dusty and road-worn as they seem- they're some sort of big deal. After a few minutes of negotiation, the oldest guy in the group- who looks vaguely familiar,though he probably ain't- makes his way up onto the landing. 

"Hey everyone, we're back," he calls out, raising his hand in a wide greeting. "Us 'Claimers had a good run, this time 'round, but right quick up front, we couldn't find those sewing machines that were requested, but we found an older one. Far as Gene can tell it still works, but let us know. Other than that, everything that was on our list when we left is being unloaded out front right now, and we could use help hauling it all in before the rain starts up. As for the late additions, it's a bit more scattered but they're on the list for next week. Only things we scrounged up there were the kitchen supplies and the truck parts."

Even before he's finished speaking, people are pushing back out of their seats and heading for the door; it's like resupply day back on the Colony. 

He ain't really ever been that interested in all that before, but between the rain and the good odds that they'll be leaving tomorrow, it's probably for the best that he get on it. The fact that he doesn't really want to have any more part in the not-quite argument that's brewing 'round the table only has a little bit to do with it. 

\--- 

"...might've been another one but we didn't have visual," one of the crew is telling one of the NATOPS soldiers as they come out through the reception area and pass by him. "Log it if you want, I still don't know what the fuss is all about."

They've got this down to a system, at least. People are lining up along the convoy, being directed this way and that by dudes that remind him a lot of Merle's crew, but with jobs. Everything that move off the trucks is checked off on one of the clipboards, and the line's moving quickly. 

The guy from earlier, walking up to the head of the line to take a clipboard from a cowed-looking kid, still seems familiar. He's got shaggy dirty-blond hair giving way to gray, and a smirk that seems permanently etched into his face. He moves like he knows he's running the show, and the way the rest of his crew defers to him only underlines the fact. Still, it takes Daryl a few minutes watching him to start putting it together. It's not until he's noticed the roses embroidered on his worn-out shirt that he thinks he has it. 

By then, the man's noticed him, squinting long and hard at him as he reaches the front of the line. 

"You a newbie?"

"Uh. Yeah. Called in for the idle control valve-"

"-for the ambulance, that's right, that's right." The man turns away, gestures towards the next truck over and shouts at the kid about the truck parts, then turns back to him, brow quirked. "You new here?" Daryl nods, and the man holds out his hand with a grin. "I'm Joe. And you look familiar, but..."

_Fuckin' A_.

"Name's Daryl Dixon," and, because he's got a lock on it now, he adds, "I just came down from the colony." Even before he's finished, Joe's beaming. 

"That's right, that's right. You're Merle's brother, ain't you?" He gestures at Daryl's coveralls. "Should've known, those wings you got on you. How long you been back, and how in the good lord's name did you wind up here?"

The kid's coming up with the box; if Daryl sticks around much longer he'll be holding up the line. "Few days and a long story."

"Well I do look forward to hearing about it," Joe steps back so the kid can pass the box over; there's a 650 and a 750 inside; one of 'em should work. "Those were lucky finds _indeed_ , my friend. Gene, here, was literally ten feet from them when your call came in. Anyway, I'll catch you at breakfast if I don't see you before then, yeah?"

"Yeah," Daryl hefts the box. "Thanks for this. See you."

\--- 

_Thursday, 10/09/2049, 07:30_

Joe's already seated at their table when Daryl makes it down to breakfast; from the looks of it, him, Sasha and Dwight are just done making introductions. Either he'd recognized them, or he'd recognized the Techniki gray they're all wearing. 

"How is that bastard Merle doing, anyhow?"

"He's dead. Year and a half now."

Across the table, Sasha's eyes go wide, and she cuts a glance towards Dwight, who blinks back at her and nudges the stack of papers back in her direction. He ain't sure why they're nervous about it; there's the not- unusual ping of surprised remembering sometimes happens when it occurs to him out of nowhere, but Joe'd been the dead of Merle's crew, back in the day; the two of them had been friends, so the question ain't unexpected. "'Bout a year and a half, now."

"Well, shit." Joe draws himself up and frowns, nodding his apology. "I'm sorry to hear that. And I hope you realize I use the word bastard in every best possible sense of the word."

"Sure he'd appreciate that." He'd sure as hell put his back into earning the title, after all. 

Across the table, he just sees the word _Merle_ scrawled out in all caps on the paper; he doesn't look for Dwight's reaction, and turns back to Joe. He can't remember, really, when Joe'd taken off- him and Daryl hadn't been close enough for him to track, but he thinks it's been two years, maybe three since he'd left Colony One.

"Been a while. How'd you end up here, doin' all this?"

"What, you mean our crack squad of reclamations experts?"

"Guess so, yeah."

"Got back down here- landed in Florida, of all the armpit cesspools in the world- you ask me, the SA can _have_ it, as no civilized people should ever set foot in Jacksonville. Started heading up for Chicago when I heard that had gone all to shit. Ran into some trouble in Ohio, met up with a convoy heading back this way. Started making runs when I got here, and thus the Reclamations crew was born. It's not too much different than life colonyside, just. You can breathe the air, here. And it might be disorganized as all hell, in the grander scheme of things, but there's a certain freedom in that, you know?"

Daryl shrugs. 

"You should come out with us some time."

"Ain't sure we'll be sticking around all that long."

"Movin' on, huh?"

Unsure, suddenly, of how much he's supposed to say and to whom, he glances over at Sasha, who bails him out. "You heard anything about the shit going on back colonyside?"

"Nothing substantial."

_Colony BS_ , she scrawls out for Dwight's benefit; he sighs and turns his attention back to his coffee as she sets in, telling hm all about the missed shipment, the council, and Negan's power grab.

There's a lot of the story she's not mentioning, but nobody fills in those particular blanks, and things being what they are, there's probably no good reason to get that far into it. 

Not with him. Joe's weird. Colonyside but not, Techniki but not. 

He _is_ opinionated enough when it comes to Negan, though. 

"That slimy fucker? In charge of anything at all? _Shit_ , I'll be damned." Joe slugs back some coffee and shakes his head. 

"Not so much now that he's dead," Dwight can't help adding, glancing over at Carl. "He got what was comin' to him."

"That's a mighty strong relief, I've got to admit." Another sip of coffee, and Joe sobers. "But if you're all still here, I'm take it to mean that all is still not right in our fair city."

"We're pretty close to being self-sustaining, but we're not there yet," Sasha says, diplomatically. "Without NATOPS support, we're scrounging at best. Hoping to change that once we get to DC."

"Well, shit." Joe claps Daryl on the back; it's neither welcome nor expected, but he manages not to flinch. "Best of luck to everyone, then."

Daryl nods, but Dwight and Sasha are looking up past them; when Daryl turns, he's faced with a wall of black, far too close for comfort. Joe, on the other hand, looks annoyed, but he plasters a grin on his face as he greets the woman standing in front.

"Jadis, lovely to see you, as always."

The woman- tall, thin, and imposing- makes no effort to return his barely-hidden sarcasm, and instead seems more interested in Sasha, Dwight and Carl. 

"Misplaced."

Across the table, Sasha blinks her eyes, deliberately wide. "Pardon me?"

For the second time in as many minutes, someone's touching Daryl. This time, it's the woman, picking at the seam of his coveralls before leaning over him to pass a folded piece of paper to Sasha. 

"Left alive when nothing else was."

There's nothing deliberate in Sasha's eyes when she unfolds the piece of paper; instead, she looks horrified. Dwight does too.

"What is-" Carl leans over, his brows raised high enough that he has to adjust his eyepatch as he sits down again. It's a defensive move, and that makes Daryl nervous enough, but it's got nothing on Sasha's expression when she holds the paper out to him.

It's a picture, drawn in smeared pencil, of Paul. 

\--- 

Daryl's brain shorts out for a while as he stares down at the page, but the blood's thrumming through his veins and his muscles are vibrating like they're preparing to move, but he can't move, can't tear his eyes away from the page.

It's a good likeness, though he doesn't much like it. The way it's drawn, his eyes look half closed, but aware and confused- scared maybe- and his hair's plastered to his head and neck, and there's just too much of him on display. The expression, and his shoulders too; the artist had drawn him without his shirt on. It sets Daryl's teeth on edge, the liberties they'd taken with him, the complete lack of context that'll tell him what, exactly, they'd been.

He supposes he should take it as a good sign that his face is intact at all. 

The others- Carl, Sasha and Dwight- seem to be watching him closely; glancing away only shows more of the same, coming from this strange woman who's face he can't read. 

Joe's the first one to break the silence, finally giving Daryl something to lock on to. 

"This guy," he says, tapping the corner of the page with the side of his thumb, in a move that has Daryl wanting to flinch the paper back away from him, "he's one of yours?"

Daryl glances up, but apparently it's on him to reply and he wonders, for a split second, if it's because of some unspoken agreement that Paul's more his than theirs, or just because Joe's talking to him. 

"Yeah, it's Paul." Who's dead, whose ashes he'd _buried_ , and this bitch just-

"One of yours," the woman- Jadis- repeats, like the words don't make any sense in her mouth. "Alone, recovered, separated."

Carl, Daryl notes with some detachment, is halfway over the table. "He's _alive_?"

"Close yes," she nods, and then, ominously, " _Separated_."

"Where is he?"

She shakes her head, lines appearing between her brows, when the woman standing next to her takes a step forward, and in only slightly less broken language, says, 

"River. Tributary bridge, south of Macon."

" _When_ ," Daryl grinds out, the confusion and impatience finally coalescing into enough useful anger to speak. 

"Two camps since," Jadis replies, nodding at her compatriot. "Two empty, one prize."

"The fuck-" he swallows, taking a breath. "Is he okay?" 

"Yes no. _Alive_."

"So where is he now?" Sasha cuts a glance towards Dwight, who looks irritated enough that it's likely he's missing even more of the conversation than Daryl is.

But then Jadis shakes her head too, and Daryl's up on his feet before he can stop himself, fingers ready to crawl at her throat; her entourage- over a dozen of them, he's just realizing- are quick to realize his intentions, surrounding her more closely. 

"Let me," Joe stands up, placing himself between the throng and the table with a glance at Daryl that's got an instruction that he can't quite follow. Turning to the group, he says, in their strange cadence,

"Theirs yes, lost yes. Concern for find."

Jadis shakes her head. "Roads since. No knowledge. Slow. Not... of us."

Joe nods. "Two empty, one prize large?"

"Scant." Jadis shakes her head; an apologetic expression flits across her wariness as she glances at Daryl. "Anchor, without but gifted."

Seeming to understand, Joe casts a quickly measured glance back, then makes a welcoming gesture even as he dismisses them. "Prize forward. Night terms you hold, yes yes?"

Jadis and her group confer wordlessly, eyes darting towards one another with a series of upticked nods. "Yes yes."

Joe returns the gesture more naturally, and the group expands as they make room to move en masse. They take their leave without another word, leaving Joe and Daryl standing by the side of their table.

Daryl doesn't bother waiting for them to get out of earshot. "What the fuck was that?"

Joe takes his seat again, gestures for Daryl to do the same, even though the instinct to chase after them and wring some sane _answers_ out of their throats is a strong one. 

"They're scavengers, vultures- and they really look the part, don't they?" Wisely sensing Daryl's frustration, he relents. "They're a lose knit group, they follow other camps around and snipe their leftovers. Not violent or anything, but if you're not in with them, you're not _in_."

"Don't give a shit about _them_." Standing there alone, Daryl's too exposed, so he sits down, glances across the table at Sasha. Catches Dwight's bewildered eye instead; she's still trying to make notes for him that he may or may not need. 

"Two empty means two nights, and one scant prize, that's two or three. Big prize tends to be four or five on their own. Wouldn't think it to look at them, but those people know how to party."

Daryl's brain is a complete hum, but Sasha manages to calculate. "So three or four nights since they saw him?"

"Yeah. He wasn't part of the group," Joe shrugs. "So they figured he'd slow them down. Sounds like they left him with some supplies, though, so..."

"They _left_ him?" Sasha's head swivels towards the departing group like she's got half a mind of tearing after them. 

"If they hadn't, they wouldn't have said so."

The drawing of Paul is still on the table; Daryl's not sure what'll happen if he picks it up, but he does it anyway. Though he can't bring himself to look at it again. 

"We have to go after him," Dwight says, the first real clue that he's been following the whole conversation from the start. 

"Think they'll let us? Convoy's already here," Carl swivels his head from him to Sasha and back again. "Rosita said we're heading out in a few hours."

"When the fuck did _that_ get locked down?"

"Last night, I guess," Sasha rubs a hand on her face, then sighs, squeezing Dwight's arm as she gets to her feet. "I'll go talk to her." 

Whether out of habit or not, Dwight stands too, and then Carl, sensing that something was about to happen, follows suit. 

"It's not all that far, right?"

Sasha shrugs; whether any of them have any real notion of the distance is anyone's guess. 

"Back in a few," she tells Daryl, taking the long way around the table to squeeze his shoulder, too, as she passes behind him. 

\--- 

_Thursday, 10/09/2049, 08:12_

The morning call for volunteers comes and goes nearly unnoticed as Joe keeps up a monologue about the next reclamation run, weird shit he's seen on on the road, about one of his crew's plans to sit the next run out, and something about a wind turbine. 

Daryl tunes in when he remembers to, creasing the folds of the paper in his hands under the table. Paul's alive, and he ain't here, and there's too much he don't know in between those two facts. How he's supposed to focus on anything else right now, he ain't really sure. Eventually, Joe gets tired of holding the entire conversation on his own. He gets up, wishes him luck, and moves on. 

Or maybe that it's just that he's spotted them first, and has the good sense to get himself clear. 

Sasha doesn't need to speak for Daryl to know the score; the expressions she, Carl and Dwight are wearing as they wind their way around the mess hall tables- the morning call for volunteers having come and gone unnoticed- are answer enough. 

The fact that Rosita's with them only confirms it. 

"The attack has the brass spooked," she says, her voice flat, as she delivers the predictably bad news. "Brass can't spare the resources or split what they've got, say we have to move out today. "We're looking at bad bridges and another big storm before we reach DC."

Daryl nods, having heard as much on that weird radio broadcast yesterday, along with that dumb song he's still got stuck in his head. He casts his eyes up to catch the equally predictable surprised faces looking back at him. Thankfully, he's just irritated enough that he's still able to spit the rest out. "That's fine. I ain't goin'."

"Daryl-"

"No." Paul's alive, alone and _out there_ , somewhere. Fuck the delays and the discussion, Daryl's _going_. "You know I ain't gonna be doin' anything but sittin' around with my thumb up my ass. Rather waste my time lookin' for him." 

He doesn't give a shit about the mission; hasn't for days, not really. But knowing that Paul's okay- _seeing_ tit, with his own two eyes- might just be enough to tip the balance. 

"He could be anywhere," Sasha points out. 

_That's the whole fucking problem_. "Look. I ain't good at talking. Ain't gonna be any help convincing the brass of anything. Best I can offer is sitting by the trucks while you talk to the powers that be and you know it." She doesn't look convinced, but the fact that he's feeling like he needs to try is startin' to piss him off. "Ain't sayin' I'm a good tracker, but I grew up hunting. He ain't even gonna be looking for us in DC, he still thinks we're heading to Atlanta. Sooner I get out there, the sooner I can get a bead on him."

"We can't split the forces for two missions. Your group's already lost-"

He tries not to round on Rosita too hard, but it's a close one. "He's still fuckin' _alive_. Thought you military types were all about not leavin' people behind." Hell, even if Paul was one of their own, they probably only _maybe_ would be, the way things are runnin' around here. "I don't give a shit, and don't need them anyway. Joe's crew's goin' on a reclamation run that way first thing tomorrow, maybe today if they can turn their shit around quick enough." He takes another breath, manages to bring his voice down; he's practically been shouting. This ain't the way he'd wanted to bring it up, but apparently one of the crew is sticking around on account of his mom, who's laid up here somewhere. Joe'd extended an invitation before Daryl'd worked 'round to asking. "Said I could ride with them."

"It's not safe," Sasha argues, but Dwight catches her by the arm. 

"It's the best idea we've got going."

"Dwight-"

"Maybe he doesn't find him, yeah, I know. Maybe he does." He pauses, for a second, like he's thinking better of whatever he's about to say next. Or maybe he just needs a second to adjust his volume and tone. "Sooner that happens, the better our odds of getting someone in the room who knows how to _talk_ to these people. And however it works with these assholes here, maybe _we_ don't leave _ours_ behind."

"I'm going with you," Carl says, already decided.

"No," Sasha and Daryl say in unison; he shakes his head. "You ain't."

"But-"

"You're safer with the convoy," he tells him, half making a point, and half hoping to set things right with Rosita; he interjects every bit of Rick's confident surety into his voice; he can't risk his entire argument on this, and he sure as hell can't risk knowing he'd put _Rick's kid_ at risk _again_. "SA's still out there, you don't know enough about the terrain." The second he's said it, he feels like a patronizing asshole. Possibly 'cause that ain't all of it. So he takes another breath, makes sure the kid's lookin' at him, and digs down for the words. 

"Look. Carl. I don't know what I'm gonna find or how I'm gonna do it, but I need to, yeah?" He waits for the nod before continuing. "And it ain't like I don't think you can handle yourself, it's just... I can't focus on finding him if I'm worried about you."

"But-"

"He's right," Sasha says, heaving a relenting sigh as she surveys the four of them. "I _hate_ this plan, but splitting us up even _more_ is going to do more harm than good. As much as we need to present a united front as soon as possible, we can't blow off the people who we're going to beg for help." She turns to Carl. "Anything we can do to get him in the room is worth doing, but if it doesn't work, it'll just be down to me and Dwight. We're going to need your help."

"Yeah, sure." Carl huffs through a sneer. "What about Daryl's?"

"Right now?" Rosita scoffs, cutting in; she's got a look to her like she, more than anyone, is actually in support of the plan, but she smirks when she looks at Daryl. "No offense- and I mean that, I see your point, I really do. But with you talking like this, we put you in the room with a bunch of DC politicians, it's going to backfire massively."

Daryl nods before anyone else can interject and sway things the other way. "So it's set, then."

He wonders if this is how Paul would do it. 

But for the first time in days, he's able to think about him at _all_ without spiraling out, because if this works out? 

He can just fucking _ask_ him.


	13. Chapter 13

_Friday, 10/10/2149, 17:05_

"One more time, and then let's call it."

Morgan is a strange man. Not in the same way Jadis and her people had been- his words make sense, in conversation at least- but after spending four days with him, Paul's only starting to figure out the man's edges. Most of them are rough. Neither of them, Paul's certain, had made a particularly good first impression. 

_"Been on my own a while,"_ Morgan had explained, grinning wryly that first evening over stew made of rabbit, which is new, and rough bread. _"Kind of lost the habit of people, you know?"_

And maybe that's true. Most of the time, Morgan's as quiet as Daryl'd been- as Daryl _was_. 

But there's a different tone to his silence, like it's less about keeping himself to himself than it is about keeping Paul out of it. He's definitely got _something_ going on; that much is certain. 

Paul hadn't left yet, though he's planning on it, living out of his pack, trying not to scatter his supplies too widely. 

It's doubtful that Morgan's even noticed; he's not fully settled into the apartment himself. The hallway leading to the front door is filled with debris- leaves, children's toys, a broken end table covered in old sewing magazines. The only addition Morgan seems to have made to the mess is to move a heavy bookcase in front of the doorway; the drag marks are still gouged into the main room's wooden floor. 

Whether Morgan's the one who'd boarded up the upper levels to the building or not, he seems content to keep to the ground level apartment, all of his gear within easy reach. Though most of the time, honestly, he's nowhere near it. He disappears each morning, his drone, pack and staff in tow, and he returns late in the afternoon bearing little more than what he'd taken with him. . 

Whatever it is that he's up to, it's clearly not something that he wants to talk about too plainly. For his part, Paul's been doing a pretty solid job of reflecting Morgan's wariness right back at him, and he's not honestly sure whether that's a bad or good thing. If Morgan's not forthcoming with information, he reasons, maybe there's a good reason for it. And if that's true, then it follows that maybe there's a good reason for him to keep his own mouth shut as well. 

Morgan seems to relax a bit when they're sparring, though; he'd even been the one to suggest it two days ago, when he'd returned to find Paul backed into the corner of the living room, too overwhelmed to know how to move. 

Paul's not holding his own yet. He's been sore since before he'd arrived, and Morgan's fighting style isn't one he's ever seen before, and even as he starts trying to show him how to fight with the staff instead of merely defending against it, the scrapes and bruises are starting to pile up. 

It almost feels good. Part of it's the exercise, part of it's just that he's doing something deliberate, even if it is just earning himself a few bruises. 

At least he's not sitting on the dusty floor, too overwhelmed by fears and guilts he still hasn't really prioritized. 

That's what nights on the couch are for. 

But he's _outside_ , now, and the sun's out, and he's _almost_ got the hang of the bo staff by now, at least enough to know how much he's getting wrong, but

So he picks himself up off the patchy grass and manages not to groan; there's no sense in giving Morgan the satisfaction, though he doesn't seem to take any pleasure from kicking his ass. Setting his feet again, and lowering his grip on the staff without having to be reminded, he nods, and Morgan attacks again. 

This time, he gets his counter in place before he needs it, and manages to get four hits in before Morgan's swooping low, hooking him behind the knees, sending him down on his back. He only barely misses cracking his head open on the concrete; he hadn't realized how far back he'd retreated.

"Good," Morgan beams at him, planting the end of his staff in the ground and leaning on it to help him up. "You're catching on, just need to stop getting so close, it's not doing you any good."

Paul's too busy clambering up to his feet to argue, but thankfully, rather than resetting back into his ready position, Morgan starts heading back towards the stoop. It's getting late in the day- he's starting to get a feel for the time, maybe- and soon, they'll be heading inside to try the radio again. Maybe this time, someone will have heard something. 

More than likely, it'll be the same nothing it was yesterday, and the day before that. 

_Stop it_. 

Paul heads inside, pours them each a glass of water the sink and grabs a few protein bars from one of the field crates Morgan's brought with him; it's plastic, emblazoned with half torn-off stickers advertising _Taylor Green Contractors_ ; underneath the sticker is a ten digit number, scrawled in mostly rubbed-off marker. It's the kind of thing that looks like some kind of before, the way most of this town does. 

Paul hasn't gotten out much, and when he has, he hasn't gone far, too wary of getting lost or stumbling into Morgan's path when he's not been invited to do so. But he's seen enough to know that nobody really lives here. Not in the building, maybe not even in the city. 

There's what used to be a shop down on the corner, picked down to the bones even before he'd started rummaging, nothing left but dark computer screens and old scraps of paper and cash scattered everywhere.

This morning had been the first time he's held any currency in his life. He hadn't known in credits what any of it had been worth, but the weight and size and solidness of the half dollar had been satisfying, up until he'd caught himself wondering what Carl would make of it.

He'd spent a good long while on the floor, there, just rolling it around in his fingers and telling himself that there's a plan, or that there will be. That tonight, Morgan would get on the radio, make contact with Atlanta, and find out that Daryl, Carl and the others had made it, safe and sound. They'd be surprised to hear from him- but happy- and they'd figure out a clear, concrete plan on how they'd reunite. 

It's not like he's expecting the full convoy to turn around, but they could tell him the route, maybe send someone to meet him. He'd gotten this far on his own, after all. He's not helpless. 

For the most part, he's surviving on the moments where he can convince himself that it's true. The rest of the time, there's the stew Morgan had cooked over the camp stove he keeps on the range, along with the bread that Morgan says is too dry. There's also the venison jerky, which he'd hesitantly added to the supply, just for the sake of having anything at all to contribute. 

Apparently, it's _supposed_ to be that dry. 

And there's water from the taps- a feature that Morgan had pointed out as being the deciding feature in making his base here- with the acidic-tasting vitamin concentrate that he spoons in from the canister on the counter. He readies two glasses, and takes them back outside to find him buckling the bulky control unit into place on his arm. 

"Thanks," Morgan says, taking a drink and setting it down on the step next to him while working the controls for the drone, out in the street. As it does every so often whenever Morgan's actually at the apartment, it lifts off, buzzing quietly, and circles out overhead. There's too much glare and the screen's too small to tell what Morgan's looking at or for, but the perimeter check seems to be routine. 

After a few minutes, once Morgan seems he's satisfied that he's got the drone holding on the angle and view he wants, he points out past where the it's holding, just out of earshot on the other side of the Tires Plus across the road, and stands up, using his staff for leverage.

"Looks like the apples over there are finally about ready to go," he says, picking up his glass with his free hand and nodding towards the door. "We can head out and grab some in the morning, take advantage of the late crop."

Jadis had left him a few in his pack; they had tasted much better than the expensive, dry, and nearly tasteless ones they'd get up on the colony. "Sounds good." He gets up, easing around Morgan to hold the door open, and follows him inside. "Is that what the drone's for?"

Passing by, Morgan stiffens, slightly, like he's asked too pointed a question, but Paul doesn't know how to pull it back, and honestly, he's curious. 

"No. Just keepin' an eye on the road." Morgan says, once he's reached the kitchen to lean the staff against the doorframe.

Paul wants to ask why, but doesn't, and when Morgan suggests they get started on making dinner, he follows his instructions and finds the cans of corn and beans in the cabinet, opening both the way he'd observed Morgan doing it yesterday. Apparently, that's all Morgan needs to just start talking. 

"I'm waiting on a friend of mine. Soon as he shows, we're heading out west," he says casually, readying the camp stove. "Should be here any time now, but I don't know for sure that he's coming alone."

Paul glances over in time to see him pulling a canister out of his pocket; the shape's familiar- his is bright yellow, rather than black- and he's got just enough time to worry before Morgan's running his thumb along the wheel and pressing the button. A small flame jets out, and Paul blinks, his brain connecting the object to the action and recognizing it for what it is. 

A lighter, not a weapon. 

At least he hadn't said anything about it out loud, though he still feels a little foolish for not having looked more closely at it when he'd taken his inventory. The only ones he'd ever seen had switches and glowing coils. 

He shakes himself, and takes the larger pot out of the sink, emptying both cans into it and setting the mess aside while Morgan gets the rice going in the smaller one. "If he's not?"

"Then it changes things. Better that I find him first than the other way around." Morgan laughs, suddenly, dialing down the heat on the camp stove. "God, that sounds morbid."

Paul manages his most diplomatic shrug, and Morgan, still grinning, shakes his head. "Okay. Shit. It's complicated. My friend, he's actually coming from Atlanta. Word on the line is that his absence has been noted, and there are people looking for him. Don't know if they'll follow him this far, but it's a possibility."

"Why? Did he do something?"

"Nothing bad," Morgan sighs, meeting his eye before checking his screen and looking out the window to search out the pin-prick of the drone, barely visible against the sky. "He knows something important, is all. The kind of thing that could save a lot of people, if it's handled right."

"And if it's not?"

"Lot of people are going to die." It takes him a minute to shift his attention back inside, and when he does, his eyes lock onto Paul's, serious again. "Been meaning to ask you something. But it's going to sound insane."

"I'm from a different planet," Paul points out, deliberately. "Everything seems insane here."

"That's one way to look at it." Morgan glances down at his controls again. "So, ah... since you've, uh, been here. Have you seen anyone die? Like the attack, maybe?"

"Uh. No. I mean, maybe? I don't know." But he does. For all that he's been ignoring that large swath of churned up dirt back at the camp, he'd known what it'd meant when Tomas had gone down; he'd washed the last of his blood stains out of his clothes just yesterday. He looks down his knee, where the stain had been too set in to budge. "I didn't really see it all happen." 

"What about afterwards? Seen anything strange?"

He's not really sure what kind of answer Morgan's looking for. "Like what?"

"The dead, did they move?"

He knows his eyebrows shoot for his hairline; he shakes his head. 

"That's good," Morgan assures him. "It's not something you need to worry about. Just stories heard 'round the way, far as I can tell."

There's an air of- not bullshit, exactly- but the way he's brushing it off, after a question like that, it's strange. There's something more that he's not telling him. 

But it wouldn't be the first time, and it's more than he's done so far. Paul nods down at the controls. "So you're out here, waiting on your friend, and trying to confirm the rumors?"

"Just figure, if it's true, it wouldn't hurt to know."

"Makes sense."

\--- 

_Friday, 10/10/2149, 17:59_

It _doesn't_ make any sense, though, not then, and not later, once they've finished clearing the food away and Morgan's on the back stoop, leaning over the mobile radio unit and putting his headset on, trying to hail the relay station. 

It's the same routine that's kept him here the the past three evenings, but this time, Paul's listening differently. Trying to pick out more meaning from Morgan's end of the conversation. Resisting the rising urge to take the headset off of him. 

The only reason he _doesn't_ is that he's starting to suspect that if he does, all he'll hear on the line is dead empty static. 

Morgan's speaking in codes, his acronyms meaningless for the most part as he identifies his call sign and requests a relay to Atlanta. It's a long few minutes before he speaks again, this time glancing up at Paul and nodding. 

"All right, hey," he says, finally speaking plainly. "This is Morgan again, I'm still looking for any word that a convoy comprised of a NATOPS welcome wagon and half a dozen colonysiders have checked in at the gate." 

Another long wait; it's ridiculous to think that even down here, communication delays are commonplace, simply because of the Earth's curvature. A shorter lag, to be sure, than the one needed to transmit signals across light years, but they're only about 90 miles away from Atlanta. Still, it's enough time for his nerves to start acting up.

They've been through this a four times now, and he knows even before Morgan turns around to shake his head that there's no news, but it still stings. There's still the same instinct to deny it, to set out and find someone worth haranguing until they give him a better answer. 

He goes back inside before Morgan has the chance to ask him for some privacy, but the sitting room window's open. Half listening to his one-sided conversation as he checks in with his colleagues, whoever they are, he talks himself through the dead-weight misery that's somehow managed to take him by surprise every single night.

There's disappointment and fear, and a sense of abandonment that feels childish, given how lucky he is to be alive at all right now. The anxiety about Morgan, though, is new. 

Eavesdropping on him as he reports casually that there's no sign of vectors, flyovers, or DJs- whatever that means- he sounds like he knows what he's talking about. Somehow, though, it was easier trusting him before he'd started mentioned the dead coming back to life.

\--- 

_Friday, 10/10/2149, 18:23_

"Sorry," Morgan says, coming back inside with the radio case, leaving the solar panel face up as he sets it in the window to charge tomorrow morning. 

"Thanks anyway," Paul makes himself say. "I really do appreciate it."

"It could take a few days for the convoy to get there," Morgan says, just like he'd done yesterday, but this time, he sits down on the chair across the coffee table. "And from the looks of things, I'll probably be here for at least another two. You're welcome to stay on here- I've got all my road supplies cached not too far away from here, so you're welcome to whatever's left here, but...""

"But I should probably start coming up with a plan." 

He knows who he's looking for and where he's going to find them. With no luck contacting them on the radio, he's just wasting time here. The trouble is, whenever he tries to think about it- what comes next- all he's met with is a big blank wall. 

"Look. I know I haven't asked," Morgan scratches the back of his head. "Figured, it looked like you had some shit to work through. But maybe talking me through everything that's been goin' on with you up to now might shed some light on the situation."

"On what situation?"

"They haven't reached Atlanta. And yeah, the convoy could be moving slow, and my contacts don't catch everything, but honestly..."

"They should've made it by now," Paul finishes. Admitting it out loud hurts. 

"You talk about them, maybe somethin' useful will come to mind."

He's been holding it together pretty well. A lot of it has to do with the picture he's been trying to keep in his head of how it'll all play out: they'll make contact, someone will recognize his name, or Mitch's or something, and they'll send out a truck, if only because his people are safe on the other end making nuisances of themselves on his behalf. 

He wants to drag his feet up onto the couch, back himself up into the corner, but not with an audience like this. 

It's just...

He wishes, not for the first time, that it was Daryl here instead. If he was asking, he thinks he could string his thoughts together. He probably wouldn't even _need_ to, honestly, because he'd already know. Alcohol wouldn't hurt either, but he's not about to ask if Morgan's got any, and it's probably for the best that he's not letting things go soft at the edges lately anyhow. 

He doesn't know where to start, but the thing he's figured out about Morgan is that, for as strange a man as he is, he's confident in what he knows and what he's doing. And this is as close as he's come to asking for anything in return. 

Paul's never been good at this sort of thing, except with Daryl and whiskey, and now he's sitting here on an alien planet with a near-stranger, dead sober. He doesn't know where to start.

So he starts from the beginning.

"About six months ago," he comes up short; stunned by how long ago it seems, now. "we realized that the Ambition- our resupply ship- wasn't going to reach the colony..."

He doesn't tell him everything, but he does tell him about the Council and Negan, the rioting and why they'd stolen the RV to come out in search of help. He tells them about his crew, and that they'd lost two of them en route to Earth. Only the basics, here, who they are, rather than what they mean. He's not sure that's enough, but by the time he's gotten through explaining the nuts and bolts of their plans and intentions, it's late. He's exhausted, and Morgan's flagging. When he's run out of words, Morgan's watching him with half-open eyes. 

"Before it all happened. What did you do?"

"Huh?"

"You told me about all the others- NATOPS, Council, Techniki and the rest, but what is it that you did, before getting dragged into all this?"

"Engineering- structural and electrical. Some Admin."

Morgan sits up at this, looking suddenly interested enough that it's making him self-conscious all over again.

"What?"

"Nothing, just. Don't tend to come across people like you too often, out here." He laughs through his nose as he sits up from the slump he's become on the chair. "My people could use someone with your background, truth be told."

"Well. Who knows," he says, more bitterly than he means to, "the odds were never great that we wouldn't be stranded here anyway. A few weeks, if we don't have any luck, I might be able to chip in." 

It's a lie. 

No, he _wants_ it to be a lie, because he can see it coming. The moment he's faced with the actual end end of all this, it's going to be so much worse that where things are sitting now. Knowing for _certain_ that he's alone, unmoored- knowing that their plan hadn't worked and that there's nothing left to try for? He's not sure that he'll be capable of giving enough of a damn to be of any use at all. 

Thankfully, Morgan's not pressing the issue right now. There's something in his eye, though, that says that at some point soon, he just might start. 

_So fuck it anyway_ , he thinks, though in his head it sounds like Daryl's voice. Whether they make radio contact or not, he needs to get moving.


	14. Chapter 14

_Friday, 10/10/2149, 22:10_

It's been a long day, and it should've been shorter. 

Joe's crew's first order of business, apparently, had been to swing three hours out of their way to run past a wind power manufacturer to talk to the engineers camped out there, preparing materials for transport back to the hospital. 

Their operation had been in better shape, honestly, than he'd thought it'd be, given how far out in the middle of nowhere they'd situated themselves. With the grid gone dark in so many places, though, it makes sense that people would make it a priority.

They'd built a whole town for themselves, like an open air Techniki camp. The mishmash of worn corporate logos pasted across the dingy housing and office trailers and quonsets had indicated constant- if not consistent- operations. There'd even been weird pre-war capitalist throwback middle-management types walking around in khakis and oxfords, talking self-importantly on portable radios as they dodged the heavy equipment. 

Half-assedly counting the lengths of tower parts piled up like logs out in the closest yard, Daryl'd waited by the chain-link gate, stretching his legs with a few of the others, not really sure what else to do with himself while Joe and the lead engineer argued back and forth about transport. 

Apparently they were going to need to get their hands on a semi; judging by the size of the turbines, would take multiple trips to even get one moved out there. And from what he'd been able to hear, between the expense, the size, and the condition of the roads, NATOPS transport would be the only way to do it. 

And Daryl's been thinking about it more than he's wanted to all day, because there'd been two semis, each large enough to haul the RV, on site at the camp. He just can't remember whether both of them had been totaled in the attack, and every time he's about ready to open his mouth to mention it, he has to remind himself that going to look at the wreckage he'd already picked over for corpses ain't going to do them any favors. 

So he'd kept his mouth shut, and gotten back into the pickup truck that comprised half of their convoy, and as they'd wound their circuitous way over highways and gravel roads, Joe rambling from the driver's seat about one damned thing or another the whole way, he'd scanned every available inch of scenery for Paul.

There'd been no sign of him, and he knows he shouldn't have expected any. By the time they'd finished with the windfarm supplier, the de-commissioned NATOPS distribution center, and the Fed-Ex complex just off the highway, they'd only travelled about ten miles from the hospital. And since Paul'd never learned to drive, there's no way he would've made it this far out, yet. 

But some dumbass smidgen of hope had kept him looking, and hours and hours of uninterrupted failure hadn't done anything to snuff it out. 

Because Paul's _alive_ , somewhere out there, and that might not be the first surprise he's ever managed to pull off, but it's the biggest. Doesn't seem impossible that he'd figure out a quick easy solution to covering mere _ground_ after everything else. 

But now that Daryl's sitting down on the musty-smelling mattress of the motel they hadn't even needed to break into for the night, that hope evaporates so suddenly that he doesn't even realize it's gone until he's bitten a hole on the inside of his lip. Because for as quick and clever as Paul is, he's not, objectively speaking, the luckiest son of a bitch Daryl's ever met in his life. He ain't the type to go lookin' for trouble, but trouble ain't got no problems finding him, and that kind of track record ain't somethin' Daryl knows how to compete with. 

Georgia'd seemed claustrophobically small, before he'd left, and it's almost laughable how wrong he'd been. 

Paul could be anywhere. 

\--- 

_Saturday, 10/11/2149, 09:18_

The 'Claimers are a weird bunch. Half the time they seem like a biker gang minus the bikes, the rest of the time they sound like overly enthusiastic civil servants running for office. 

Except for Len. Len's an asshole, through and through, the kind of guy Merle would've gotten along well with him for a good long while before curb-stomping him just to get him to shut the fuck up. . He's got thinning brown hair and the kind of beard that wouldn't look healthy even if he did try to maintain it, and a bad habit of glaring holes into the side of Daryl's head. 

"The fuck, man, I asked you a question."

"Len," Dan says, glancing back at him in the rearview as he slows the pickup down, just a bit. "Ease up, man, it's too early for this shit."

"No, I'm just sayin. I mean, I get that you and Joe were best friends forever up on the Colony, but I don't see how that means we gotta make room for dead weight on this trip."

Ignoring him, maybe a little too pointedly, he keeps the outer side mirror mirror in his peripheral. The guy up front's named Tony, he's pretty sure, and the smirk on his face ain't boding well. 

Len reaches across the back seat and smacks him in the arm. 

"You're a mechanic, right? I mean, that ain't nothing. But do you got any _sense_?"

Up front, Tony's shaking his head. "What are you, HR? Joe cleared him already."

"And it ain't permanent," Daryl points out, without looking back at him. He helps them with the reclamation work, they give him a ride. Ain't that big a fuckin' deal. "Soon as I find my people, I'll be out of your hair." 

"See, that's the problem, here."

The truck actually slows to a halt; Daryl glances up just in time to see the reflection of headlights flashing on the bumper of the utility van up ahead.

"What the fuck ever, _Dan_. Like you weren't thinking the same thing."

"I was thinking that once we're done at the base, we're gonna have a long day uninstalling a fucking _generator_ from a fucking server farm" Dan rolls his eyes, opening his door to get out. "I was thinking how nice it's going to finally give a big _fuck you_ to Verizon."

"And _I_ was thinking it would be nice if I could make it through my first cup of coffee without y'all acting like a bunch of bitchy teenagers," Tony deadpans, opening his door too. Joe's already climbed out of the passenger side of the van. 

None of this feels like it's going to go well, but sittin' on his ass while everyone else is hashing it out outside seems like a dumbass move, so he follows suit. Len, of course, is already rushing up to talk to Joe, clearly intent on getting' his piece said first. 

"What seems to be the issue here?"

Tony shrugs. "Idiot bickering."

"Fuck you, Tony." Len rolls his eyes. "I was just curious about the new guy, is all. Didn't realize trying to get to know the newest member of our team was such a major infraction."

"Yeah," Dan shrugs. "Long as you're not bein' an asshole about it."

"Gentlemen," Joe calls out, his smile the sort of wide and easy that could turn at any minute. "Is this really the kind of matter that requires de-escalation and recompense? Or can the two of you settle it out between yourselves?"

"Yeah." Dan says, quickly.

"We're cool, all right?" Len, more anxious than he needs to be- though he's a sniveling shit and probably a coward anyway- turns towards Daryl. "Seriously, man. I'm just tired. Not trying to be an asshole, yeah?"

Whatever. 

"Yeah, it's cool."

"Excellent," Joe claps his hands together, then looks back to the van, where Billy and Harley are getting out. "Anyone wants to switch vehicles for the next leg, I ain't gonna stop you, but I think we're due for a break anyhow. Stretch our legs a bit, smoke 'em if you got 'em." 

Tony rolls his shoulders, pulling a pack of cigarettes out from his pack and offering one to Daryl as the group begins to scatter. "Sorry about these idiots. Len's a good guy, most of the time, just..."

Daryl hasn't smoked in years, but there's no reason not to, it's like riding a bike, and as he passes back Tony's lighter and exhales that first harsh lungful, he feels something in his shoulders unclenching. "It's cool," he says, then casts about for what to say next. Speaking of bicycles, though... "What's that?"

"What?" Tony twists to look where he's pointing. A quarter mile out at the next intersection, there's someone heading south on a bicycle with a pack on their back. He squints, breathing out twin plumes of smoke through his nose as he turns back to look at him. "So?"

Fuck. Yeah, obviously. Ain't no getting your hands on fuel without a NATOPS tag, and prioritizing which batteries get charged is probably more of an issue now than ever before. 

"Uh. Haven't seen that. In years."

Tony's eyebrows disappear under the bandana he's got pulled down over his forehead, then he smirks. "Shit, man. I mean, heard you were from _space_ and all, but..."

He laughs, surprising himself. "Yeah, yeah. Shut up. Just. Didn't look like there's anywhere for anyone to go, out here."

"You know how it is. Just 'cause a town's unincorporated don't mean it ain't real."

"Is there one out there?"

"Out there?" Tony pulls a face, considering. "We don't come out here all that often. Macon's the biggest city for miles, and it's getting' to the point that we've picked it clean for any of the necessities. But yeah. There's some enclaves and communities and shit out there."

"You know where they are?"

"A few. Enough to know that the further you get off the highway, the weirder people get."


	15. Chapter 15

_Saturday, 10/11/2149, 10:13_

It's another bad morning. 

Morgan had pretended not to notice him pretending to sleep, and had let him be, disappearing with his gear a little after sunrise. But that had been hours ago, and he hasn't managed to fill the time with anything new, but he's trying to be surgical about it, now. 

His people are gone. And just because they'd left him here, to this, on his own, it doesn't mean he doesn't need to find them. 

There's a very real likelihood that they're dead, he's just not _certain_. It's grim, but he could find a shovel, try to make his way back to the landing site, and-

-and what, dig them all up? He's not even positive that the churned-up earth really had been a burial; it had been too large. He'd be sifting through dirt for days in hopes of finding something horrible, and it wouldn't make anything better. At best, he'd just know that one thing for sure, and it wouldn't get him anywhere. 

Not that he's _been_ getting anywhere, loitering around Morgan's place like this. 

He'll admit, he'd needed time to recover from his injuries and to catch his breath for a minute, but it's been days, and if something doesn't change, all Paul will be doing is wasting time on the vague hope that tonight, when Morgan gets back and sets up the radio, they'll hear something worthwhile. 

He's been imagining what it would feel like, Morgan's eyes flashing open, him signaling over to take the headphones. Putting them on to hear Daryl's voice.

 _What the fuck?_ he'd say, and _hang on, we're coming_.

And in this little fantasy, he'd apologize, he'd explain- he'd laugh a bit too, relieved, before remembering himself and getting angry at the powers that be for not doing a thorough enough search of the area. 

There'd be a shuffling on the line, and Paul would hope for Sasha's voice next, but it would be a soldier, demanding information- his location, his status, so they could run it up whatever administrative chain. Only to be told by their commanders that they can't afford to come back for-

He's doing it again. Running even the best outcome down to the worst options possible, and it's not helping anything. 

He sits up, feeling a little bit nauseas as he does so, but his head clears after a moment, and it subsides. 

Here is what he knows: it's been over a week since they landed on Earth, and several days since the attack. According to Morgan, his people _have_ to be in Atlanta by now. He needs to catch up with whoever survived the attack and either find his people, or resign himself to the fact that if he loses his shit, there'll be no help for the colony. 

And sitting here, whiling away his mornings inside the apartment our out in the yard out front, isn't how any of that will happen. 

The map is still tacked up on the window from last night. For all that it details, in excruciatingly small print, what Morgan had assured him to be a mostly up-to-date map of secured territories, wide swaths had been left blank. 

"That's NATOPS for you," Morgan had explained, handing him a beaten up road atlas that had filled in a lot of the gaps. "Sometimes they wipe people off the map, sometimes they just don't include them in the first place."

They'd lost the light before he'd managed to get every detail traced onto taped-together pieces of paper Morgan'd helped him assemble. Over dinner, Morgan had pointed here and there on Paul's tracing, indicating demilitarized zones, downed bridges, safe places to camp- even a hospital that's sixty miles out of his way. Paul had drawn it in anyway, right on the edge of the sheet. 

In the opposite corner of his map, they'd figured out a good approximation of where the landing site had been, and he'd marked the site with an x, labeling it carefully. 

Standing up, he crosses over to the table, picks up the atlas again, and tries to find where it had been that Jadis had pulled him out of the water. The terrain's just too chaotic to tell, but he's got it down to a few options. 

On his own map, he writes a question mark and circles it. It's not where he's going, but it's where he's been, and it seems like something that should be noted. Morgan's apartment, however, seems like something that shouldn't, so he doesn't.

Stepping back, eyes tracing the routes he could possibly choose to take, the distance to Atlanta is daunting, compared to how far he's come already. Still, he likes seeing it all mapped out, everything scaled down to manageable inches. 

It should only be two, maybe three days on foot. Still, there's no chance of overtaking them; for all he knows, they'll already have moved on. But Atlanta's a living city, there'll be people there. And where there's people, there's infrastructure, regular _communications_. He'll at least be able to get a lock on them.

It's just-

 _No_ , he chastises himself, clapping a hand over his face to drag it over his beard, forcing himself to get moving. _Save it for tonight_.

\--- 

_Saturday, 10/11/2149, 12:34_

Now that he's decided to move on, there's really no reason not to keep to the yard- or rather, that it would be pathetic to insist he was ready to venture out on the road when the mere _street_ was still a bridge too far.

So he's gone wandering, gone looting, because even with Morgan's additions, there's not much mapped along his direct route, unless he wants to play the odds and add days to his journey. 

He'd been hesitant to actually enter St. Vincent dePaul's Thrift Shop, due to the the headless statue dressed in a sequined striped vest, garishly large shoes, and a vampire cape. It stood presiding over an array of objects that either belonged in a kitchen or a torture chamber. But the door had been wedged half-open, and though his first impression had been one of completely unbridled chaos, it had quickly become apparent that that was just how the store had been arranged, and not the result of violent intruders who might still be lurking behind a shelf of tchotchkes. 

Rummaging through the clothing on their hangers, he'd managed to find some clothing that didn't scream out _I'm from space_ as much as his coveralls did. He'd emerged wearing pants with several large pockets, a long-sleeved knit shirt that didn't feel too dissimilar to the ones he used to wear under his uniform, a knit cap, and a long, brown leather coat.

Leaving the store, he feels about as conspicuous as a headless clown vampire, but there's nobody on the street to tell him so. 

There are cars and trucks scattered around the street, more densely packed in some areas than others. None of them start, not that he's surprised. There's nothing to charge the batteries with, and a few of them look so old and decrepit it's possible they'd still been running on gasoline when they'd been abandoned. 

The hardware store's already seen its share of people like him, but he's not looking for anything fancy. A claw hammer, some rope, a small thick tarp and a folding multi-tool, all of which he finds easily, along with an emergency flashlight with a solar charger and hand-warmers, also solar-charging. On his way back to the front, he grabs a pair of heavy gloves, and that's when he glances behind the counter. 

The hunting knife, according to the packaging, has a whole lot of features that the professional outdoorsman would find essential. 

He's not a pro- hopefully, he won't actually have to become one- but it comes with a holster he can clip onto his newly found belt. 

He does so almost immediately, sicked, a little, at how much better he feels wearing it. 

\--- 

He hadn't thought to ask Morgan when Macon had been abandoned; the food containers that he does manage to find at the WalKroger grocery store all say that they'd expired over a year ago; he's not sure of anything until he reaches the library.

There's a typed sign, faded but still legible, stuck to the inside of the door. 

_The Library Will Be Closed on 4/1/2146, per Evacuation Order N5488._

He knocks, first, because if there's one eccentric like Morgan lurking in town, there's no reason that there wouldn't be two. There's no answer, and no response from anywhere in the surroundings, so he backs up, finds a loose paving stone, pushed up by the dirt at the edge of the sidewalk, and throws it through the glass door. 

The sound of shattering glass is _loud_ , freezing him to the spot, sure that he'd just alerted someone dangerous to his presence. It takes him a laughably long time to realize that, if he had done so, standing out in the open was probably not the wisest idea. 

Gingerly, gloves on, he hammers at the jagged edges of the glass until he's got room to move through. 

And then he's inside an actual proper Earth _library_ for the first time in his life. 

Compared to everywhere else he's been through, it's tidy and well-organized. He's probably the first one in here since the librarian locked it behind them on their way out. Even so, with carpeting and the wooden furniture, it's just so _comfortable_ looking that the thought occurs to him to just _stay_ here. 

The rows of darkened computers are strange, though. The two libraries on the colony- one off the Admin Plaza, one in the school- had both been bright, open spaces, meant for people to gather in their off time. With digital connectivity being built into the colony from the ground up, and the expense of shipping books across light years, there had only been a single shelf of physical books. 

Here, they're _everywhere_. He doesn't even know where to start. 

So he starts browsing, feeling a bit like a character out of a vid or a novel. Some of these books might even describe someone doing the exact thing he's doing now. 

But that's not what he's here for. 

He doesn't understand how they're organized. Back home, everything could be called up with a keyword search, but here, someone'd had to decide "this book goes with this book, and this one with that," and place each one on the shelves by hand. He knows about cataloguing systems, but he's never needed to learn how to use them; apparently the card catalogues he'd, again, only seen in fiction, had fallen out of favor by the time this place was built. 

It's just as well. Quicker to walk the aisles than to flip through small cards until he finds what he's looking for. 

He's just not certain. And he keeps getting distracted. There are books on religion, Earth history, politics, crime, and word puzzles. Sports he's never played and music he's never heard. There are books on travel, though Atlanta doesn't seem to be included. 

There are medical books, though half of them seem to be about strange diets, and books about _pet ownership_ , because people down here, they'd just had animals walking around them all the time, even inside their homes. 

Turning down the next aisle, he finally finds it: the food books, _shelves_ of them. 

Baking. Baking for vegans. Cooking for one. Cooking for dinner parties. Cooking for _casual_ dinner parties. None of them, he eventually realizes, are anything he needs. They're for _cooking_ food, not just _identifying_ it. But at least it feels like he's getting closer. 

Past a truly astounding number of books on knitting- enough to make a the Dockside Stitch and Bitch group go into absolute fits- he finally starts finding what he's looking for.

Outdoor Survival. Most of the books have the same NATOPS colors printed on them, occasionally interspersed with drab brown-on-brown books with titles like _Mama Moosehead's Mushroom Manual_. Some of them have drawings and diagrams, while others are so densely printed that he gets nervous just looking at them. 

One of them has a completely insane man in a nylon coat on the cover; the first chapter seems to be about the merits of drinking one's own urine. 

How people made it across the universe is honestly beyond him, sometimes. 

There are a few, though, that give him a general idea. Plant identification. Water purification and staying warm. Setting snares, should he somehow develop the need and the stomach to start eating meat, and navigating by the stars. Building shelters. 

The diagrams in this one, at least, look to be drawn by someone who's familiar with engineering manuals, and the photographs of the finished product don't look laughably unstable, so he adds it to his collection. 

At the front desk, he finds dozens of tiny pencils; they clack together satisfyingly in his hand, and he puts about a dozen into his picket. There's a pad of paper in the cabinet behind the desk, along with drawers full of library cards, dried out pens and highlighters, and un-sticky stickers proclaiming "I Love My Library."

On his way out, he can't help wandering through the fiction section, where he quickly becomes so overwhelmed by the selection that it's depressing. Once he's got half a dozen or so, he forces himself to stop and choose. 

One of them, upon closer inspection, seems to be about a university professor having an affair with his student, which sounds uncomfortable. Another is a murder mystery that has something to do with church bells; as much as he'd liked the cover, the first page loses him completely. 

Eventually, he's down to two paperbacks. One of them is a story about a detective with supernatural powers, possibly because he may be a werewolf. But the man on the cover is leaning against an old car, wearing a leather jacket over his broad shoulders; his head's ducked down, hair falling into his eyes as he lights a cigarette. 

It's all down to the scowl; he reminds him so much of Daryl that it's depressing. But the resemblance is really uncanny, enough that, honestly, if he didn't know better...

Page one of the book is three kinds of awful, though. And in the end, is simply thinner. His pack is getting heavy already, and he's going to be carrying it a very long way.

Halfway out the door, he turns back, moving decisively and efficiently, barely having to watch where he's going as he goes back to the shelf and tears off the cover off the werewolf book. 

It's just. If he's got a book, he'll need a bookmark. 

\--- 

_Saturday, 10/11/2149, 13:50_

He'd realized something was off back at the corner, but it takes him until he's reached the yard to identify what's changed. 

There's a bicycle propped against the steps. 

He's already in the yard, he's probably been seen. "Hello?" he calls out, approaching more carefully, hand going to his knife in a way that he'd like to chalk up to instinct but is more about nerves.

Almost immediately, the door opens, and Morgan's grinning at him. "Paul, hey. I was wondering where you were." He takes in Paul's clothing without making any indication whether he looks like an idiot or not. "C'mon in, meet Edwin.'

He sets his pack down next to the door, but Morgan's clearly figured enough out that he doesn't need to ask what he's been up to. Even so, Paul's not sure where the impulse to apologize is coming from.

Inside the living room, there's a man with gray-brown hair and a reddish beard sprawling on the couch, looking road worn, dirty, and exhausted. His eyes are sharp, though, when he gets up to shake Paul's hand. 

"Edwin." He's wearing the same boots Rosita and the rest of the soldiers had worn.

"Paul," he says. "Nice to meet you."

"You too."

He looks over at Morgan, hopeful that he'll take over the conversation, set some kind of tone, here. "This your friend you were telling me about?"

"I haven't said much," he shrugs, glancing at Edwin. "Just that I was expecting you."

"Right on. Well, any friend of Morgan's is a friend of mine," Edwin says, sitting back down, this time on one end of the couch. "What brings you to what's left of Macon?"

"Just passing through. Morgan let me stay a few days- which I appreciate, by the way," he adds, nodding at Morgan. "Heading out, tomorrow, probably."

Morgan nods, lets out a sigh. "You're welcome to stay here as long as you want. But, ah... we'll probably be on our way here, too. First light, if not sooner." Another glance at Edwin- there's a definite exchange of information happening, but Paul can't parse it. "Got a vehicle stashed not too far from here. We can get you north of town out, if you'd like."

A little taken aback by the offer, he's not sure what to say. But a ride would save him an hour or so, and every bit helps. Even if it does come at the price of asking too many questions, something he's certain neither of the men would appreciate. 

"Where are you heading?" Edwin asks. "If it would help, that bike out front's still in good shape. It's yours, if you want it."

"I've never ridden one that wasn't stationary," he admits, feeling foolish as he says it, and only more so when Edwin's eyes widen in disbelief. He knows they're commonplace down here, but only David from SciMed could ever be seen riding around on his, spending nearly all of his personal cargo allotment on spare parts. "I'm heading to Atlanta."

"Small world, I just came from there."

"He was up on the Colony," Morgan tells Edwin; it feels a lot like he's trying, at least a little bit, to cover for his awkwardness. "They landed south of here a few days ago."

"No shit?" Edwin shakes his head in disbelief. "That's... wow."

"The colony's in trouble," Paul begins, not sure how much Edwin needs to hear. "We came down here to get help."

"Well, you're not going to find it in Atlanta. Nothing but fascists and chaos up there right now."

"Did you see anyone on the road? Like a NATOPS convoy or anything?"

"If I had, I wouldn't have gotten all that close. But sorry, no." He shifts in his seat. "What's going on up on the colony?"

"NATOPS withdrew their support. We're almost self-sufficient, but we weren't quite there. Need them to resume supply shipments, at least until we figure something out."

"So they sent you?"

"Eh. It was less sanctioned than that. The Council's in a mess, on top of everything else."

"Shit, that sounds rough," he says, though it's possible that something flashes through his expression that Paul can't quite chalk up to mere sympathy. 

Instead, he asks, "What's going on in Atlanta?"

"Well," he watches Morgan duck back into the kitchen. "I don't know how much you know..."

"Almost nothing."

"Well, first off, if you're looking for NATOPS, you're going to the right place. They've always had a presence there, but they just started bolstering their forces. Wasn't a big deal until they started taking over things they had no business taking over, like the CDC."

"Center for disease control," Morgan explains, passing out apples from the bucket he sets on the table. 

"Why?"

"No idea. I was working there until last week, but they wouldn't tell us anything. Just started making all these huge protocol changes, diverting funding. Got to the point where it was impossible to get my actual job done."

"Does this have anything to do with the dead people you were talking about?"

Looking like he'd rather Paul hadn't asked, Morgan shrugs at Edwin.

It's like his strings have been cut, he looks so resigned. "Yeah," he says. "Kind of got a feelin' that it might."

\---

 _Saturday, 10/11/2149, 17:00_

Even though they'd put together a substantial spread, Edwin's arrival and everyone's imminent departure calling for some kind of occasion, dinner starts off as an uncomfortable thing. Between the discussions Morgan and Edwin aren't having on account of him, and the questions he's not asking on account of them, it reminds Paul of dinners with Gregory, minus the outright dislike. Breaking the ice each time one of them makes an attempt at conversation is exhausting. 

Eventually, though, Paul manages to land on what he hopes will be a safe topic. 

"So," he says, remembering to swallow his food, "you've both spent some time on the road. Any pointers?"

Smirking, Morgan points at him with his spoon. "Keep that knife on you."

"It's not as bad as all that," Edwin assures him. "But yeah. Better safe than sorry. With everything getting weird up in Atlanta, people are moving around a bit. I wasn't the only one to bail on the whole scene, and where there's any sort of upheaval, well. Wolves at the door and all that."

He makes a face as takes another bite of the rice; Morgan's cooked some chunks of apple into the protein supplement- and honestly, it's a little strange to watch, with as how content Paul is with the meal. Usually, it's just too boring to bother noticing it at all. 

"Morgan, how are we on supplies?" Edwin asks, suddenly, once he's managed to swallow it down. 

"Packed extra in the truck, another week's supply cached halfway."

"All right then. In that case, Paul, if you want it, I've got power bars and jerky and some energy gels. Ain't fancy, but it won't slow you down as much. Last thing you want is to get caught out just 'cause you're loitering on someone else's territory."

"How much of an issue is that?" He's gotten a sense that it is one, though Morgan's been as light on the details there as everywhere else. 

"It isn't, until it is. You planning on sticking to the main roads?"

"Yeah."

"Well, the stretch around Piedmont is pretty weird- there's more people in those woods than there ought to be, and if you're moving slow in the wrong place, then you might want to keep your wits about you. Like, seriously, if you stop? Hide your shit, or you won't have any come morning. North of there, the roads were pretty clear until Forest Park. That's where the worst of it is."

"Why there?"

"NATOPS coming in means they're pushing people out of jobs- legitimate or otherwise. Few months ago, it was just a scattering of communes and farms, but with the influx of people, things are getting tight. Infighting, which can be useful enough to the SA that NATOPS never misses a chance to intervene, and neither side tends to tread lightly. It was starting to boil over when I passed through the other day. Almost didn't make it out."

"How did you get around it?"

Edwin smirks in Morgan's direction, though Morgan misses it. "Actually passed myself off as a SA informant with some people.

This, Morgan doesn't miss. "You _what_?"

"Didn't tell them anything, just... didn't dissuade them from anything, either. They wanted me to be that, so I was, and they got me out to where the checkpoints hadn't been established yet."

"Anyone follow you?" Morgan gets up, grabs his drone control from the counter, but Edwin gestures for calm.

"Not since then, and I've been meandering ever since. Believe me, they would've had time to catch up, it's not like they were going to go for a full aerial search."

The two of them drop the conversation so cleanly, after that, that Paul's pretty sure that's what the flyovers had been about. Again, the urge to ask _just what the hell_ the two of them are up to bubbles up, but he swallows it down, sips his water instead. 

"All right," he says, letting just a hint of his annoyance show. "And what should I do if I run into a _dead person_ walking around?"

"Same as the living," Edwin says. "Avoid them."

\---

 _Saturday, 10/11/2149, 17:56_

"Look," Morgan says, setting up the radio once Edwin's gone off to find the vehicle that Morgan hadn't seen fit to tell Paul about. "I know it's weird, all this cloak and dagger crap. But things being what they are, we can't exactly start talking too loud about where we're going. For all his "wise man of the highway" bullshit, the fact is, I had to come out here to pick his ass up 'cause the chances were slim he'd make it back home without someone watching his back."

Paul's attention hangs on "wise man of the highway," and he wonders what else he'd managed to miss over dinner. But apart from that, he gets it. 

"It's cool. I appreciate all this, by the way. Wasn't my intention to put whatever you've got going on at risk."

"And I appreciate it. Hell, if it weren't for him, I'd be asking if you wanted to come meet my crew. You seem to have your shit together, and we could always use another hand on deck."

"For the weird work you're doing, that you can't talk about."  
"Pretty much, yeah. But here's the thing. We're gonna be going dark until we get there, but if things don't work out like you're hoping and you find yourself lookin' for a place to be and things to do- here's my call sign." He scrawls out _UESHIBA32_ towards the bottom of the pad of paper he keeps by the radio. "It won't work this side of the Mississippi River or north of Arkansas. There's a secured subnetwork on the relay grid, the operators are either my people, or think we're theirs." More scrawling, this time, it's numbers. "These here are the channels I'll be monitoring once we're clear of here. Codes or channels, you try using anything you've heard me use, you won't get anywhere.We can't risk throwing up any more red flags than we've been doing."

It occurs to him, far too late to be of any use, that he's been putting Morgan at risk, having him contacting Atlanta all week. 

"What we've been doing, is it going to attract any attention?"

"It's actually made things easier. Regular check-ins about an approaching NATOPS convoy is their bread and butter. Gives me a reason to be on the line when someone I don't know picks up." 

Morgan tears off the page and passes it to him. "My people need to know who's coming before they roll out the red carpet, so be sure to use that."

"Okay. And thank you, but.. who _are_ your people?"

"Just people. Who're sick of fighting and want to try _building_ something for once." He laughs through his nose as he puts on the headset. "Wouldn't think it was a radical subversive act leading to all this paranoid bullshit, but apparently, needs must."


	16. Chapter 16

_Saturday, 10/11/2149, 16:17_

At least they're casting a wider net, rollin' through every halfassed town and village within a mile or two of the highway like this. Most of these towns'd looked empty even before the war started; it's almost possible to believe that nothing's changed. 

_God_ , Daryl misses comms, misses the ship. Even when there wasn't a reason to talk- even when he hadn't _wanted_ to talk- a press of a button and he could have Paul on the line. Hell, back on the colony, before he'd even known him, Paul'd been no more than a few thousand meters away at the most.

Paul could be anywhere, here. _Hopefully_ , he's on an intercept trajectory. 

With all the stops they gotta make, they ain't gonna be in the neighborhood of Macon before tomorrow night, but they're getting close enough, now, that maybe- _hopefully_ the odds of their paths intersecting could start going up. 

The bitch of it is how much he's _anticipating_ it, even as he's tellin' himself not to hope too hard. But he can't help it. He's trapped in a truck, listening to Tony and Joe talking about the wind farm they're hoping to set up over at the hospital, and all the other system upgrades that'll allow, and it's boring as hell. But it sounds so much like the kind of thing Paul would know about that he kind of wants to take note of it. Just in case he's interested. 

Other than that, though, he just doesn't know. He wants to know if he's okay, or if he's hurt. Where his head's at. Because Paul's strong, and he's got this way of setting his brain to find a solution for everything, but beyond that? He's probably not in the greatest place. Daryl's been a fucked-up mess himself, and _he_ hadn't been left for dead by his own people.

He doesn't know how he's going to apologize, not really. He'll probably be like a broken record, on that front, as soon as he fucking _finds_ him. 

\--- 

_Saturday, 10/11/2149, 18:20_

It takes five of them to get the oven up on the truck bed, but Joe and Len manage to slide it- just barely enough to be satisfying as hell- between the wheel wells. Securing it against the sidewall, they start loading in the rest of their score from the mess hall's kitchen. 

They'd made it through the NATOPS checkpoint and onto the decommissioned base with no problems on account of the checkpoint being abandoned, though Joe's got the authorization paperwork in a clear plastic folder up on the van's dash, just in case of any patrols.

Most of the time, it just feels like they're runnin' around stealin' shit. Knowing that it's officially sanctioned is actually the bizarre part; enough that he almost wants to know how it'd all gotten set up. If not for the fact that Joe's the type to lay that kind of shit out in excruciating detail, he might find himself asking. 

They've got the oven, and a commercial grade microwave, and two boxes full of plates, cups, and cutlery. Moving on from the kitchen, Tony and Harley are out combing the barracks, Dan and Len are covering the administrative offices looking for paper or some shit, and he's following Joe into one of the secured areas of the facility. 

There's a combination lock set into a steel door. Joe, surprisingly, knows it. 

"Got clearance for this base before the power grid went down." Joe pulls his headlamp on and flips the switch, palming the beam so as not to blind Daryl. "Too expensive to keep it running, so they just packed out the important shit and left."

The door swings open; turns out, it's a weapons locker.

"They know you're grabbin' all this stuff?"

"Yeah. Ain't much to it, for the most part. 9 mils, 45s, that sort of thing. They took the heavy hitters with them when they left, and it's become our semi-official offsite armory. Don't want to have too much of it near the hospital, not with all the kids running around, so we maintain the guard stock from here."

That don't make any sense, and he says so. "NATOPS is running a war, and they're not keepin' tabs on their stock?"

"We _work_ with NATOPS. Long as the hospital's doin' okay, they don't need to lend ground support. It's a unique situation, I'll give you that, but it works."

"What d'we need to grab?"

"Few boxes of .22s, couple of sidearms to go with 'em."

Daryl grabs the bullets off the shelf. "SA's got jets, man." And, possibly the RV. "Ain't seein' how this is gonna do much of anything."

Joe smirks. "Most of the time, far as they're concerned, _SA_ is just a fancy way of sayin' everyone who ain't enlisted who has a mindset of defending their own liberty."

This pulls him up short. "So it's all bullshit, then?"

"Nah," Joe says, checking the contents of a gun case before closing the latch. "Unfortunately, there are groups... old school. More dedicated to the cause, whatever the hell that means anymore." He sighs. With the head lamps on, Daryl can't make out his expression. "They've already killed off enough of the planet, pretty soon I think they're gonna have to sit down and start talkin' like grownups."

Daryl scoffs. 

"I'm serious. Like... Oceanside, you know them?"

"Nah."

"Might've been after your time. They're down on the coast. Got this tiny little camp, nobody could find it for years. Turns out, it's because they had this charming habit of killing any man that set foot in their territory. No questions asked, no exceptions."

"Shit."

"Yeah, well. Apparently they run a tight ship, and more importantly, they run _all_ the ships. Like ninety percent of what's left of the Atlantic Trade. Only ships left that ain't warships are theirs, and they make a killing off the rick fucks out east."

"You do business with them, too?"

"Not personally, but... friend of a friend, with all sides assured that it's better that way. They might have the corner on each and every black market, but some of their shit's legit." His light swivels away as he searches the shelves along the wall. "Long as it's economically viable- and, lets face it, they're doing a better job on the medicine supply front that NATOPS has been able to manage for years, and they know it- there's no sense in anyone starting up hostilities. It's weird, but it works."

"I hear that," Daryl says, looking back towards the door. "Was the same on the colony."

"Indeed it was. Clarice still around?"

He'd forgotten about her. "Far as I know, yeah. Runs the vid shop, these days." 

"Glad to hear she's got a fall-back, with all the shit you say's goin' on up there." Joe follows Daryl out the door. "You think your people will be able to get things running back to normal?"

"Hoping so," he says, swallowing down the guilt. His people are fewer in number than they ought to be as it is, and he's running around raiding ammunition stockpiles. "Guy I'm looking for, he's probably the best one for the job."

He refuses, now, to fall into thinking about what it'll mean if he doesn't find him. How much harder it'll be to get anyone to listen, or to even give a damn about the results himself. There'll be time for that later. 

"So you're saying that we should probably get a move on, then. The fate of your _world_ depends on it." Joe shakes his head, amused, as he swings the heavy door shut, then leads him out towards the lobby where the others are waiting, looking bored. "You ever hear the shit that comes out of your mouth and just want to laugh?"

"Not really."

The fate of Daryl's world, though...

Yeah, maybe. That's fair.

\--- 

_Saturday, 10/11/2149, 20:32_

By the time they'd broken into to the old server farm to wind their way past reception, the cube farm, and the rest of it, it had been early evening. By the time they'd managed to get the generator fuel cells disconnected, it'd been too dark haul it safely back to the truck, so Joe'd called it, and they'd decided to make camp for the night

In the lobby, of all the damned places, and it's fucking weird. For as bland and branded as the rest of the building had been- even the fabric covering the cubes in the back where office workers had once whiled away their days was in the official Verizon colors- the reception area looks like something out of a zoo, or a well-maintained garden. 

"Assholes trying to show off how environmentally sound they were," Dan had groused, happily; he'd been surprisingly happy to start ripping wiring out of their machines, apparently on account of some old bills that may or may not have ever been sorted. 

But it's nice, though, even though several of the plants are long dead. Now that the sun's gone down, it feels more like home than anywhere he's been in months; he can almost imagine himself sitting on one of the benches on the perimeter walk, staring out through the branches and framework to the huge swath of nothing outside. Sure, it's a badly pitted parking lot instead of colony dirt, but in this light, the texture is nearly the same. 

They all chip in to haul the gear from the van; bedrolls, the camp stove, and a few crates of supplies. Joe gets the mobile heater going while the rest of them go through the MRE's like there's any point in pretending like one form of bland crap is better than anything else. The self-heating packs never work for shit, and everything only has two textures: dry and brittle, or unpleasantly mushy. 

He never thought he'd _miss_ rice and protein powder, but he grabs spaghetti and pseudo-meatballs anyway. Apparently, it's a mistake that he just hadn't happened to make yet. . 

"Hold up, man," Dan says, snatching the waxy paper-plastic packet out of his hands with a smirk. "Rookie picks last."

"The fuck ever, man." 

A little surprised, he lets Dan retreat a few feet away to sit himself down against the reception desk. The fact that he's put Joe between himself and Daryl seems deliberate, but Joe's the only one who ain't watching. And that seems deliberate too. Daryl backs up, rolling his eyes, as Harley shoulders past him. 

"Them's the rules," Billy shrugs at Daryl, grabbing another one out of the box, then waving whatever it is in Len and Tony's faces. "Claimed."

He waits for them all to grab theirs, but Joe gestures for him to make his selection before making his own; whether or not that's part of their bullshit little pecking order or an aberration, he doesn't really give a shit. 

There's another three spaghetti MRE's in the crate anyway, so he sits down with it against the oversized pot of a dying tree and starts pulling it all together. 

Beyond one interjected "shut the hell up, you're here, they're not," Billy doesn't seem too invested in Dan's rambling about how badly Verizon'd screwed him. Something about billing, Daryl figures, only once he gets going, it seems like it's more about terms of service violations that are, in Dan's words, _total bullshit_.

Tony and Joe get bored listening to it a while after Daryl does, which is unfortunate, but maybe he shouldn't be surprised. 

"So. Been wondering, Daryl. That shit you were telling me about AdSec," Joe says, shoveling something into his mouth that's the approximate color of his graying brown hair. "How'd it get so bad?"

"Ain't really sure. Council was a bunch of fuckups, decided to give AdSec more clout. Negan took the ball and ran with it. Whole damn place was becoming a police state."

"Yeah, yeah. That'll happen," Joe says, sagely, but Tony looks annoyingly interested.

"Like how do you mean?"

"Just. Sending out extra patrols, had his people demanding shit they had no business demanding." He snorts, partially because of the particles of drink mix that he'd accidentally inhaled. "Throwing people into the yard to beat the shit out of each other. Curfews, breaking fingers. That sort of thing."

"Fuck."

He doesn't like how _tense_ thinking about it makes him, even now.

Even knowing that Negan's dead, though it seems like a good ending to the story. "He's dead, though."

"How?"

Maybe not as much of an ending as he'd hoped.

"Whole thing started because we were cut off from Earth. My crew decided to come down here and see about getting help. Shit escalated when he found out."

_And Negan got killed by a teenager_ , he wants to say, but not to these assholes. 

Thankfully, Joe's heard just enough that he's reminded of some work his crew had done on the membrane with Merle, and he's got no problem going on at length to answer everyone's dumbass questions. All Daryl has to do for the next little while is nod in agreement or add some detail to backup Joe's claims, which, now that he's sittin' here watchin' everyone listen, sound crazier than he'd thought. 

\--- 

Billy and Dan start passing around a flask once everyone's done eating, which is Daryl's cue to leave, since listening to everyone sober had long since started grating on his patience. As soon as he sees that Joe's lookin' at turning in, he grabs his bedroll and makes for the door. 

"It's kind of cold out there, Man."

"Ain't too bad."

Truth is, even if it's just a parking lot, at least it's outside and, more importantly, _away_ from everyone. It's only been happening here and there, but Daryl knows assholes when he sees them, and all sleeping in here's gonna do is put him at risk of running afoul of another one of their dumbass little rules. 

Apparently going too _far_ is as much a transgression as anything else. 

"Ooh, check out tough guy over here," Harley laughs through his nose. 

"He wants to freeze his ass off, let him" Joe mutters, "goddamned mother hens."

\--- 

_Saturday, 10/11/2149, 20:48_

It is uncomfortably cold outside, but he's not about to turn tail, so he makes his camp against the side of the building next to the entrance. 

The air feels like another storm might be rolling in, soon, though there's no clouds to prove it. He sets up close enough to the entrance that he can still take advantage of the perimeter lights Harley'd scattered inside, and far enough away that he can pretend he ain't here with any of them. 

The glass and concrete wall and the shrubs overgrowing their landscaping provide enough of a wind break that it's not all that uncomfortable, once he gets his bedroll and sleeping bag rolled out. Once he's all settled in, though, looking out across the parking lot at the black swath of forest separating the road from the sky, he keeps seeing these damn hints of movement at the edge of the trees. 

He knows better, though. It's just moonlight cutting through branches, animals moving around, that sort of shit. The kind of thing he'd grab his bow and head for, back when this was home, whenever he needed to get the fuck away from people. 

It's different, tryin' to see people in the shadows 'cause you're hopin' they're _there_. 

He drags the picture out of his back pocket, holding it up just enough that it catches a bit of the light comin' from inside. The expression's no different, just a bit more smudged, and he wishes the drawing was worse, just so he could chalk up how cold he looks to a lack of artistic talent. 

There's a noise from the entrance, so he flicks the paper closed again. It folds easily, the fold-lines already creased and soft, but it's slipped out of his hands before he can put it away. 

" _Fuck_ -"

-his arms get caught up in the sleeping bag, it takes him a second to unzip it enough to disentangle himself; Dan's laughing, already drunkenly weaving out of range, holding the sheet up to the light. 

"Just came out here to take a leak, saw you all interested, figured it might be something worth _looking_ at," he leers, eyes flicking backdown to the page. "Gotta say, didn't see that one coming, though another minute or so, might've been another story. Letting the paper fold shut, he flings it in Daryl's direction- mostly to distract him as Daryl gets to his feet.

He doesn't take the bait, he's already _lunging_.

Dan ain't much of a fighter; Daryl can't even tell if he's drunk or just slow, but he doesn't get his hands up in time and he's so busy tripping over his own feet as he tries to get away that he doesn't really stand a chance. 

But he gets one anyway, on account of the other assholes, drawn by the racket; Daryl can make them out in his periphery as he lands another punch against a soft, sweaty jaw. 

Tony's out first, but he makes way for Joe, and _he's_ got a gun, so Daryl backs off, eyes darting to see Len, Harley and Billy spreading out to flank him. 

Billy's got a gun, too. So does Len.

"So. Gentlemen," Joe asks, like he's some kind of goddamned middle school principal. "Would either of you like to explain just what the fuck, exactly, is going on here?" 

"Fucker can't take a joke," Dan whines, pinching his nose, mostly just smearing blood everywhere.

"Fucker needs to mind his own _business_ ," Daryl counters, straightening up. The picture is on the sidewalk, right next to Tony's feet, but instead of going for it- and drawing their attention to it- he keeps their eyes on him. "Came out here just to start fuckin' with my shit."

"No, that ain't-" Dan, eyes wide over his hand, shakes his head as he continues backing away. Looking beseechingly at Joe, he misses the grim look Billy and Harley exchange. Watching _that_ , Daryl nearly misses Tony bending over to pick up the paper. 

Joe doesn't. With a glance, he takes in the folded sheet and, before Daryl can even identify the feeling of his heart cramming into his throat, nods at Tony, waving at him with his gun hand. Daryl all but snatches it, because the second it's unfolded-

"I presume that's the item in question?"

Daryl pockets it, keeps his hand nearby just in case, eyes on Len's 45. "It's fine."

"No it's _not_ fine," Joe turns, taking a step towards Dan. 

Terrified is a look that suits him, and it only grows worse as the others all take a step back. 

"I was just-"

"Just drunk and stupid," Len offers, his grin bloody"

"You know that ain't an excuse," Joe points out. 

"I know, I just- it was-"

"You know the rules." Turning towards Daryl, possibly for his edification, and possibly just for the theatrics, he explains, raising up his gun to underscore his point. "Anything we source for the list is already claimed. Anything not on the list, you claim and carry yourself." He looks back at his men; only Len is smirking. "And anything that's claimed becomes property, meaning you don't _fuck with_ it."

Harley's smirking like he's got somethin' cute to add, but Joe shuts it down with a sharp glance, which he drops, deliberately, when he turns back to Daryl. "You brought that letter with you, correct?"

He doesn't look at Tony, just in case. "Yeah."

"And he intended to divest you of your property."

This is about to get ugly. "Yeah."

Joe sighs, shaking his head at the ground, and Daryl can't help thinking of Negan. 

"On a scale of one to five, five being the highest, how important is it to you?"

He blinks, at once not understanding the question, and understanding all too well. If he says it's valuable, they'll attach a price to it. 

"One," he lies.

Joe sighs, holding out his empty hand to the others. "Len? Billy?" 

Without a word, without _question_ , the two step forward, handing him their guns. 

"Daryl, you need to take Dan, here, by the arms. Keep him from squirming. The rest of you keep it clean. One shot only."

Dan looks like a deer in headlights; a feeling Daryl understands all too well the moment Joe steps back.

For a minute, they're all just standing there, staring at him as he stares at Dan.

" _Daryl_ ," Joe says, " _please_." 

The word's awfully polite, for what he's asking him to do. But the others are watching. Tony's already stepping 'round behind Dan, hemming him in. 

"The sooner we get started, man," he says, probably talking to Dan, but maybe not. "You know the drill."

He feels himself moving; he's not sure how. 

Dan's got his eyes squeezed shut. Daryl grabs him by the upper arms from behind, but doesn't drag the hand down from his face. 

He knows what's going to happen. He doesn't want it any more than he wants to discover the alternative. 

Len hits first, grinning while he strikes him in his unguarded chest. Daryl feels the impact when Dan stumbles back. He's probably meant to. Tony and Billy, when it's their turn, pull their punches. Harley does not; he claps Daryl roughly on the shoulder as he steps away. 

Dan's dropped his hands, protecting his torso, by the time Joe, having handed off the guns, steps forward. 

"There's no joy in this," he says, and slaps Dan across the face, sending a splattering of blood into the air. 

Dan actually relaxes first; it seems like the signal to let go, so he does. Eyes downcast, he turns. "I'm sorry, man," he tells Daryl. "It won't happen again."

"All right," Joe declares, like he's suddenly just tired. "Righting the balance is an ugly process, but what's done is done, and now we move on." The words sound too-well practiced; that's about all that Daryl can process. "Dan, go clean yourself up. Kit's in the van."

\---

_Saturday, 10/11/2149, 21:16_

"Was startin' to wonder about you. Nothin' sadder than an outside cat getting stuck inside," Joe says, once everyone else has gone back inside and it's just the two of them out here in the lot. "But this shit? Fucked as it is, I can see, it suits you. You did good, long as you remember where the lines are."

Daryl crosses his arms against the cold; shivering in front of Joe isn't something he wants to do right now. "So that's how shit is down here?"

"Fucked up and uncivilized?" Joe laughs through his nose. "Yeah, it is. No cops, not for years, now. And the government's given so much authority over to NATOPS just to keep the war going that they can't control anything, and they can't help."

"That sounds familiar." It's the colony, it's _Negan_ all over again. There are too many fucking parallels to stomach. Up to and including the fucked up shit Daryl's capable of doing, given half a chance. 

"Yeah, well. That means it's up to us in the meantime to devise our own ways of bein' civilized with one another. We eke by the best we can, which unfortunately means digging deep into our caveman brains in lieu of any functional external authorities. Now. I know you're just along for the ride and all, but for now, long as you wanna be, you're one of us. It ain't perfect- and it sure as hell ain't always like this, I'll promise you that- but it'll be easier on everyone if you just roll with it, all right?"

"Roll with what?" 

He's not good at checking his tone; Joe picks up on it.

"Look. Us 'Claimers? At the end of the day, we're scavengers. It's an ugly word, but it's what we do. Places like the hospital, they need supplies. NATOPS can't always pull through, and they sure as hell can't move fast. The hospital's doin' good work, and they always have a bunk open, so we come out here, we look around, we find what we can to help."

"Uh huh."

"And sometimes we gotta fight for it. Usually not each _other_ , but... it happens. We aren't the only ones out here."

"Like Jadis? Her people?"

"The Junkyard kids?" Joe scowls, thinking it over; he's stifling a yawn. "Yeah, they're... competition, though maybe that's too grand a term for it; really what they are is a pain in the ass. They get into shit, take what they want and fuck off. They'll trade, sure, but they've got a knack of getting to the shit we need first, then ratcheting up the price. Don't let the weird artist cult bullshit act fool you, they're the worst sort of capitalists."

If that's true, though, Daryl ain't sure what that makes _them_.


	17. Chapter 17

_Sunday, 10/12/2149, 05:33_

The morning starts too early, well before sunrise at the sound of Morgan and Edwin loading out the last of their meager supplies, marching them out to a black truck that he hadn't heard pull up. 

"About that offer of a ride," Morgan says, crouching next to the couch. "Drone's picked up lights to the north comin' this way down the valley. We can't risk waiting to see what it is, so we're out in five. If you don't want a ride north of town you should probably make yourself scarce as soon as you can." 

He gets to his feet, starts gathering his things in a daze; it only takes him a few minutes; he'd packed up everything but his scrounged toiletry kit last night; he's awake enough to think better of delaying things just to brush his teeth in the sink. 

But he's not happy about it. About any of this. 

He hadn't actually thought someone would be coming for them. That meant there was more to their weird untold conspiracy than he'd wanted there to be. 

Secrets or not, though, they've been decent. And he trusts Morgan, at least this far. 

Outside, the cold air slams into his face as he pulls his jacket on; Edwin's holding out his arms for his pack so he tosses it over, then gets into the back seat. Morgan's already got the car started; two slamming doors later, they're starting to move. 

They don't go as fast as he'd thought they would, but it takes him a while to realize it's because they've left the headlights off. And they're only driving for about five minutes, judging by the clock on the dash that mistakenly reads 10:19, before Morgan slows them to a halt. 

Without a word, Edwin jumps out the passenger side, and Morgan follows suit, leaving the engine running. Paul twists in his seat to watch as they part ways in the street behind him, then re-emerge, each of them dragging a panel of mesh fencing towards the center of the road. 

Morgan's first back to the truck; Edwin seems to be fiddling with the latch, but he strides back with more focus than he's seen him use before. The whole time, neither of them stops to speak; this has all been discussed, maybe even rehearsed. 

And then they're off again on their meandering path, stopping only once more, this time, merely to push a car into the road behind them. They're covering their tracks. It's almost laughable that this, more than anything, signals his brain to realize that danger- an actual _threat_ is following. 

He's awake enough now to ask, but the answer seems obvious, so he doesn't. 

\--- 

_Sunday, 10/12/2149, 06:18_

They'd been cautious working their way back towards the highway, Edwin piloting the drone somewhere overhead in the only gradually lightening sky. Eventually, though, he says, "okay, we've doubled back around them. Got some lead time, they're still back south of town." 

A few minutes more, and Morgan slows down, stops the truck. 

"Okay, this is where we've got to split up, unless you've changed your mind."

For a second, looking out through the window at the dark sky, the wide swath of highway that doesn't look all that much different than where he'd landed, and the shadows lurking on either side of it, he honestly wants to. 

They're going somewhere, they have a plan. They're going to get away from these people, and he's probably going to be walking up the road that the other trucks will be taking on their return. 

But he doesn't know enough about what's going on with them, and whatever it is, it's not what he'd come light years to do. 

"Thanks," he says. "But I gotta-" he gestures towards the road outside; whether or not Morgan catches it, he doesn't know. "Just need to get my stuff out of the trunk."

He steps out and around to the back of the truck, his eyes catching on the truck's rear taillights, which have been covered in enough thick tape that he can only see the narrowest seam of light poking through on one edge. The hatch comes open- the trunk light seems terrifyingly bright- and he reaches in for his pack. 

Morgan's getting out of the truck, coming around to see him off, and he reaches alongside the piles of gear to pull out the bo staff that had been buried underneath. 

"Here. Hopefully, you'll just need a walking stick."

"Thanks," he says, adjusting his pack on his shoulder awkwardly it's getting caught up on the bottom of his coat. "And. Thanks for everything, I really do appreciate all of it it."

"No problem. I just hope you find what you're looking for." 

Finally, the pack slides into place, and gear wise, he's ready to go.

"You got everything?" Morgan's saying, one hand on the hatch door. 

If he's left anything, it's back in the apartment, already out of reach, but Paul gives the trunk a cursory scan, but he'd only had the one bag.

There's another bag sitting there, heavy black nylon with _E. Jenner, SRD_ stenciled across the side next to the CDC insignia. Compared to the drab browns and grays and blacks comprising the rest of the gear, the lettering stands out like a neon sign. 

"No, that's got everything."

"All right then." He presses a button, and the hatch falls shut. "Well, keep that info in mind, that offer still stands, all right?" More quietly, he adds, "And, ah, just so you know, those trucks we're evading, they're probably NATOPS. Much as we can't afford to be seen by them, sounds like you can't afford not to be."

A nauseating wave of relief comes through him, but Morgan's glancing meaningfully up towards the front of the truck, and he thinks he gets it. Whatever trouble Edwin had in Atlanta, Paul's not actually a part of it. 

"I'll keep it in mind," he says, loudly enough that it'll carry, but not so much that it's conspicuous as they shake hands "Good luck with everything, yeah?" 

"You too," Morgan says, giving him a casual salute as he heads back to the driver's seat. Paul backs up off the side of the road, forwarding the gesture to Edwin, who's got the window open. 

"Figure you've got about a few hours before they turn back. If they see you..."

"I never met either of you." 

"My _man_ ," Edwin grins. "Good luck, see you on the flip side."

"You too." The words don't make sense, but the context does. 

The truck pulls away as the window rolls up; they're easing quietly onto the westbound highway. 

Five minutes later, he thinks he hears their engine roaring to life. 

\---

_Sunday, 10/12/2149, 09:30_

He's been puzzling over it as he walks, without really being cognizant of it. Trying to slot all the pieces into place is a little easier now that it's just him alone on the side of the road. It's easier to think without virus-like tendrils of twin paranoias creeping through his brain. 

There'd been Morgan, waiting for Edwin, who'd acted like getting out of Atlanta was some kind of daring escape. And maybe, for them, it had been, because they needed to get back to wherever home was. 

Presumably, it has something to do with Edwin, who'd worked for the CDC, either being pushed out by NATOPS moving in, or because, as Paul suspected, he'd known something they'd not wanted him to know. So the two of them- and whatever network of operatives they worked with- had coordinated this weird extraction to rush him out of town. 

He stumbles to a halt when the last piece clicks in. 

SRD. Strategic Research Division. _Jenner_. 

If NATOPS had cleared out the landing site, they might've found the records, pieced them together already, and they'd done so in much less time than he'd been able to. 

Edwin- he's sure of it now- had been the one overseeing the rubidium project. The letter of introduction Deanna had written for Spencer had, he's pretty sure, been directed to the _director_. 

And now, apparently, he's gone rogue. 

Maybe. 

He allows himself a few minutes to upbraid himself; he should've made the connection sooner. Maybe if he'd been more forthcoming, Edwin would have returned the favor and he'd know what any of this _means_. 

Pulling the water out of his bag, he leans against the post of a meaningful-to-somebody green sign that reads, simply, _87_. 

If Jenner was still trying to run the project, and he's running from NATOPS, is it good or bad?

As far as motivations go, all he has are Morgan's assurances that their people are tired of fighting, that they want to build something new. It sounds a lot like what a hero would say, but it also sounds a lot _more_ like what a villain would say. 

He just doesn't _know_.

\--- 

_Okay_ , Paul thinks, hoping that the walking will jar his brain into some kind of useful activity. _Run it again._

If NATOPS is looking for Jenner, trying to chase him down, it could be for what he did, or what he knows. 

Maybe they've gotten word from the others that Jenner had been implicated, maybe they're already looking at dealing with the situation. He'd been scared enough to run, so either way, things look bad for Jenner, but not necessarily so for the colony. 

Maybe they'd simply recovered the data from the wreckage. Bad for _Paul_ , if it means that his crew wasn't there to take part in the discussion, but possibly still good for the colony.

But that doesn't make sense. For Morgan's people to coordinate an extraction effort, they would've needed more time. He'd even _said_ he'd been waiting for Edwin for a while when Paul had stumbled into Macon. 

So scratch that. Take it back a step. 

For NATOPS to know and react this way, they would've had to know about it before the landing. Which means that they knew enough about it to possibly try getting him out of the picture- again, he'd _run_ from them. 

They'd known the RV was coming for weeks, but before that, they hadn't expected them. 

Could be they're just tying up loose ends. 

If that's the case, _shit_.

It had all seemed so easy, yesterday. Going to NATOPS at all could be a huge mistake. 

He hadn't gotten any sense of that over the course of the time he'd spent with them, though. 

But he hadn't gotten any sense of any of this from the Council back home, either. 

He doesn't know what he should do, and that's a problem, because right now, there's a rumbling off in the distance, a convoy of trucks heading this way, and he only has a few seconds to decide whether he needs to be standing on the road when they pass, or dashing off into the trees. 

He calculates the odds. What it boils down to is this:

He knows Jenner'd been involved with the rubidium scheme, and if NATOPS had been serious about continuing on with the work, they would have already secured the measures to do so. And they hadn't. Instead, they'd sent people out to meet them, helped them acclimate, and had shown every sign of wanting to help them. 

And even if it's a lie, it's a long walk to Atlanta, and that's where they're probably heading. 

So he takes a deep breath, plants the end of the staff into the ground, and waits, hand raised, for the approaching trucks to slow down. 

\--- 

_Sunday, 10/12/2149, 10:08_

They'd driven right past him, crossing the yellow lines to give him a wide berth. 

He'd been able to see the faces of familiar uniforms and unfamiliar faces staring blankly back at him, and they'd _just kept going_.

And yeah, looking back at it, maybe he doesn't look like the sort of person one ought to slow down for. Edwin had said it himself, there are people scattered everywhere, not all of whom are worth dealing with. 

And standing in his stolen clothes on the side of the road, holding the staff like some kind of wizard, he supposes he gets it. 

It's just so damned _frustrating_. 

And embarrassing. A minute ago, he'd been dead certain that he'd was on the brink of unraveling the conspiracies of _two planets_ , and now? 

Now he's standing on the side of the road, breathing the faint traces of truck exhaust, looking like an idiot. 

He still has miles to go. He only makes it a few feet, straggling after the last disappearing truck, before everything just floods out of him, completely and all at once. 

Giving way to gravity, he slides down the staff until he's kneeling, then sitting. The staff knocks him on the side of the head as it falls down to the ground next to him, but he barely notices.

He's so fucking _tired_ of this. 

Not knowing what's next, what's already happened, where his _people are_.

Not knowing what to do, how to do it the way he's _supposed_ to, what's relevant and what's not- he'd packed a goddamn book on foraging for fucking _wild berries_ yesterday, and last night had been given enough food to see him through like the need wouldn't have occurred to normal people. He'd known that he needed to get to Atlanta, then to be careful about it, and he'd probably let the two people who could've actually explained it to him leave without even asking because he hadn't known how far to push. 

And there's all this road, and this fucking _sky_ , and it's clear and sunny, now, but there's so damned much of it that the coat he's found can't possibly stand up to it, and he's sniveling here about this instead of the actual _huge fucking problems_ that he needs to be focused on. 

Fuck, he wants to talk to Daryl, to Sasha, to anyone who could explain how things work down here. Someone who'd have an actual sense of who to trust and who was just crazy, or how to tell if someone was _guilty of endangering an entire planet over some goddamn dirt_. 

He wants someone- he wants _Daryl_ \- to look at him like he's being an idiot and tell him, simple as breathing, that he'll figure something out. Or even that he won't, because _fuck it all, anyway, everyone's a bastard_ and _ain't got nothin' better to do, anyways_. 

And he wants him alive, and _real_ , and not just this untethered thought of him in Paul's head when he doesn't know that there's a reality to match up with it. 

\--- 

He counts off ten in his head, trying to get his breathing under control, embarrassed at the show he's putting on for the trees. 

He counts off another ten out loud, because fuck the trees. If they got a problem with him, well, the least they could do is let him _know_. 

They're silent, though, and have no inclination to tell him much of anything at all. 

Same as everything else on this damned planet. 

\--- 

_Sunday, 10/12/2149, 17:34_

So far, the temperature has been holding, though it's starting to get dark. He needs to start getting serious about finding a place to stay for the night. 

If his map is correct, the swath of forest converging onto the road off to his right is the nature preserve. There are no lights, no smoke, no signs of human life that he can see, but that only means that rather than gathering around fires- or whatever more technologically advanced means of accomplishing the same thing they're using- people could be _anywhere_. 

There's an intersection, though, up ahead, buildings of various size and use huddled on all four corners. Two of them are gas stations. Drawing closer, he can see the sign of something called a McFilet, which isn't as illustrative as the bench seating and tables inside the windows are. Cut it down to an eighth of its size, remove all but one wall, and it could be one of the restaurants on the strip. Though as it is, there are too many windows in the place; he can see straight through to the other side, and the light isn't even _good_ here. And it's not like it's open for business anyway. 

Better, then, to make camp inside the Tom and Ben's Auto Garage. The tagline underneath the name says _all models serviced, domestic and foreign_ , and right now, he's about as foreign as they come. 

There's a long-since broken window on the side of the garage, above a large garbage collection bin. The planet seems to be full of these, but with it's size, it makes sense that there's an _away_ for things to be thrown to, and resources enough to replace them. 

He climbs up on top of it, bo staff half readied though he hasn't seen anyone since the soldiers passed him by, and shines his flashlight inside. 

It's dirty, filled with equipment, but like the rest of this little town-that-isn't, it's devoid of people. So he lets himself in, dropping his pack down first, then stepping as lightly as he can manage on the workbench underneath. 

It smells like old solvents and rust, and something skitters along the opposite wall too quickly for him to see, but he holds his breath for a minute, and nothing else happens. Nothing comes out of the hole in the floor, but he doesn't feel the urge to examine it too closely, either. 

It's all right. 

Through the large bay doors at the front of the shop, he can keep an eye on the street, and there's enough _stuff_ in here that the reverse won't be true unless he turns on a light. 

Venturing through the shop, he opens the door at the back, and finds a stockroom and office, windowless and secure, and another door that opens into a lobby. 

Both are lockable from the inside but he doesn't do more than set his pack down, instead heading back into the shop. Sitting down against one of the workbenches, he sets about digging into one of the meal replacement bars Edwin had given him, and an apple. 

He's had two of each already, and he's sick to death of them. If he's being honest with himself, he hasn't had a meal he'd actually _liked_ in over half a year, now. He's starting to get used to it. 

Now that the pack is off and he's sitting still, he becomes increasingly aware of the sweat cooling unpleasantly on his back. Taking his coat off only makes it worse, for a moment, so he makes up for it by draping it over his legs. 

It only takes him a few minutes to memorize the view outside the shop, but far longer to stop twitching at ever rustle at the treeline. It's just leaves in the breeze, nothing to worry about. After a while the gentle motion starts to become calming. 

\--- 

_Monday, 10/13/2149, 06:18_

He blinks, and the sky's gone light again, and his first thought is that something was wrong, he'd fallen into a coma and had woken up months later than he should've, but the thought's no sooner there than it is replaced with a series of understandings, most of them unpleasant. 

This isn't the colony, it's not home, it doesn't _sound right_ and the voices outside belong to nobody he recognizes. 

There are six, no, eight of them. Two of them are swooping back and forth across the street on bicycles; a few of the others are talking and laughing loudly enough that he can hear them from clear across the street. Most are men, most of them young. One of them is walking along the low wall separating the parking lot from the road backwards, gesticulating wildly as he tells some kind of story. 

They've almost directly in front of him, and every time one of the slow-moving bicyclists circles back lazily in his direction, he edges back against the workbench just a little bit more. 

As slowly as he can, and keeping low, he makes his way across the back wall towards the office, dragging his coat and pack along the floor ahead of him. The door creaks loudly as he eases it shut behind him, and he flips the lock. 

He can still hear them, just barely, as he tries not to move, sure that even the smallest motion will send something as yet unseen clattering to the floor. At first it sounds like they're moving on, and then, suddenly, they're much closer, words close enough to make out. 

"The fuck you gonna do in _there_?" a man's voice calls out, amused. "Find the keys for the Maserati?"

"Hey, you never know-"

"Yeah, and _you_ never learned how to drive, _Adam_ ," a woman retorts. "C'mon, lets hit the Instapump, I swear to god if I don't find any-"

"We don't need to hear about your tampons!"

"Then quit dicking around with that fucking dumpster and help us fucking _find_ some," another man interjects, "or I'll let her use your fucking shirt instead."

The bickering pulls away, but Paul gives it a minute before forcing his muscles to relax and allowing himself a breath of stale office air. Slowly, he undoes the lock and cracks open the door. 

They're passing by the McFilet across the street, heading for the gas station. The riders set their bicycles against the pumps with more care than he would've expected, given the boisterousness of their pedestrian companions. One of them, he notices, is limping.

They fling the door open- he's guessing they're not the first to have made a run through there- and there's just enough light that he can almost track their movements inside, but not quite. 

They've left one woman guarding the door; she's short, her hair cropped severely short, and she's staring in his direction long enough that he's sure that she sees him, or _could_ , but she gives no sign. 

She's got something on her forehead. Dirt, probably.

A few minutes later, a tall, pale woman with long wavy hair streaming out from underneath her knit cap comes out and sidles up next to her, passing her one of the blue boxes she's got before gesturing back inside. The shorter one's face breaks into a surprisingly large grin as she bounces at the knees, crushing the taller one with a hug that's returned with a rapidly deepening kiss. 

One of the men, long-haired and loose limbed, is laughing when he comes out to find them, and gestures for them to go back inside, taking over the watch. He only takes a cursory glance at the street, though- just long enough that Paul catches the ugly gash on his forehead- before reaching into his pack and shaking the can he's dragged out. 

He moves over towards the wall, tearing down a bleached-out banner advertising a special on cases of soda, and begins to paint, in large, block print.

_WOLVES NOT FAR_.

It's a warning, it's got to be, but it's something that Paul hadn't thought to worry about. 

He hasn't seen much of anything beyond a few quick-moving rodents, several birds, and the dried out remains of what had either been a tortoise or a turtle. But just because he hasn't seen anything more dangerous, it doesn't mean it's not out there. 

And judging by the looks of these people, they'd either had a run-in with one, or they'd had to run from one. Either way, it would explain their injuries. 

It wouldn't, he eventually decides, be the worst idea to go out to the street and try talking to them. They obviously care about each other enough to gift each other with hygiene supplies, and they're warning potential passerby about threats in the area.

But there are nearly a dozen of them, and just one of him, and they might not appreciate being startled by a stranger wandering into the street from a building they'd thought empty. He knows he wouldn't take it particularly well, and he's only been on this planet for a week. 

By the time he's talked himself back into the notion, though, they're already moving on. And it seems creepy, unnecessarily threatening, to rush out after them. 

So he'll keep a safe distance, then. Catch up when the sun's a bit higher in the sky, so they can see him coming. They're all heading the same way, after all. Maybe they wouldn't mind him tagging along for a bit.


	18. Chapter 18

_Monday, 10/13/2149, 10:18_

They'd wasted- they'd _spent_ all of yesterday trying to find an alternate route across the river. Joe'd spent most of that time on the radio, his voice becoming more of a snarl as the day'd worn on while the rest of them got out and pretended not to listen too hard. 

Everyone'd been nervous, standing around listening to him, their hands too close to knives or guns, and Daryl joined them in waiting for something to blow over that never quite did. All the scouting they'd done hadn't helped shake it loose as much as it could've; there'd been nothing but dead ends. 

They hadn't gotten across until they'd gone south, almost thirty miles out of their way, and by then Daryl'd just been so relieved to be moving again that he hadn't risked a complaint. All eyes had been on the gas and battery meters on the dash board. Neither had been down to the halfway point, but it had been getting close. 

By the time they'd made camp in an abandoned elementary school, it was close enough to dark that Daryl's plan to set off alone, on foot, had been stupid and pointless enough to dismiss without further consideration. 

The fact that there'd been something worn and hard in Joe's eyes had been warning enough, anyway.

\--- 

Today, Dan's still keepin' to himself. 

The rest of them just want to recover as many miles as possible before calling it for the day. It's a different sort of impatience. 

Billy'd made coffee for everyone this morning, wandering down the hall past long-gone kids' painted watercolors with a cup for him, knockin' on Mrs. Atkinson's classroom and askin' if he'd slept alright like they were friends or some shit. 

"Been a fucked up coupla days," he'd said, shouldering the overdecorated door open to let himself out. "But hey, at least you know how the worst of it goes out here, yeah?"

"Yeah."

He hadn't been lying, really, but he'd known- he _knows_ better than to not expect some kind of fallout. Doesn't matter if you don't fight back. If you get hit, you remember that shit. 

So for all everyone's improved moods this morning, he's keepin' an eye out and reminding himself not to settle in too easy. 

The thing is, this don't feel like Merle's crew. Whenever shit had gone down with them, it would hang over them for _weeks_ until it boiled over and became a whole new issue to fight out with bullshit and fists. And this ain't like that. 

Deliberate or not, he likes that nobody really wants to talk about anything that isn't happening right now. Nothing's said about the other night, or their lives before the war. They talk the plans, how they're gonna fit everything on the trucks, what they're gonna do when they get back. Joe's lookin' further ahead; how what they're doin' now is gonna lead to what they'll be doin' three runs from now. 

Watchin' Harley and Billy, he's pretty sure the two of them've known each other longer than the others; they've got this whole second language of eye rolls and facial twitches that nobody else seems to share. These happen most often whenever Dan or Len chimes in. 

Nobody, Daryl's pretty sure, really likes either of those guys. 

Tony reminds him a bit of Dwight, though, in a weird way, like he's smarter than he lets on, or just playin' at bein' an asshole because everyone else around him actually _is_ one. 

All the same, he's just glad nobody here reminds him of Paul. 

\--- 

_Monday, 10/13/2149, 10:34_

There'd been trees fallen in the road, too large to move, so they'd had to scout an alternate route before finding an approach to get through. He'd spent the the ten minutes it had taken _sure_ that this was it, that things were finally going to boil over. 

They hadn't. Ten minutes later, they'd come off the gravel and back onto the road, and had started burning pavement. Like it hadn't even happened. 

Daryl's got a headache from scanning the treeline as they move too fast along the highway, and his eyes want to keep drifting shut, the way Harley's are, up front, but he can't let them. 

"What's your friend look like, anyway?" Tony asks from the other side of the back seat, fidgeting with the black bandana around his neck, like he's just lookin' to break the quiet that's taken over the truck. The closer they get to Macon, the more on-edge everyone seems, though it's possible that maybe they're just feeding off of him, because his nerves are getting' shot to hell. He don't even know if it's nerves or excitement. "C'mon, man. Nothin' else to do in here, and many hands make light work." 

"Long brown hair. Beard. Kinda...short, maybe." He's said it before, more'n once, but parsing him down to these base components just ain't enough. Ain't like he's gonna sit here describing the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, or how he can do deadpan so well that you really don't know whether to laugh or feel like an asshole for even thinking about it until his eyebrow quirks. Won't help them to know how his bones turn to liquid when he allows himself to just be tired, instead of shouldering the bullshit of two entire planets.

"You're goin' this far out of your way on a description that ends with _maybe?_?"

"We all came a whole lot farther than this on less than that," Daryl points out. 

It would be something, at least, to have someone covering the other side of the road. The odds are increasing- not enough- by every mile that their paths will intersect, and this close to town, the terrain's starting to fill in with side streets, buildings, visual noise. 

Still, it takes him a minute to actually make the offer. "Got a picture of him."

He shifts, reaching into his back pocket, fingers nearly failing to catch the too-soft paper. Once it's out, he flicks it partway open singlehandedly and passes it over before he can stop himself. 

Tony's side of the interaction seems enviably less fraught, at least until he recognizes what he's holding, what he's looking at. 

"Uh, what's going on there?" If Tony looks uncomfortable, well, it's got nothing on how exposed Daryl's feeling right now. 

"Dunno," Daryl says,taking the drawing back and folding it up. "That Jadis lady gave it to me. Didn't look so fucked up, last time I saw the guy." 

_The guy_. He hates the way the words sound in his mouth, partially 'cause it sounds as if Paul's less, somehow, than he is, and it's all rolled up with how the last time he'd seen Paul, he'd just looked scared. But part of it, here and now, suddenly, is 'cause a whole lot more is riding on Tony's reaction than he'd been prepared for. It ain't like these people are his crew. 

But Tony just studies the drawing for a second longer. Says, "Looks kinda like Jesus," and hands it back to him. Turning back towards his window, he adds, "I'll keep an eye out."

That's all well and good, but here's no sign of him anywhere. They could've passed him _days_ ago, and the closer they get to Macon, the harder it is to resist the urge to just lean up, tell Joe to take another meandering route, or just turn around.

But they're so close, now, and Paul... he'd probably go to ground, take a minute to think before setting off. Hell, he'd probably leave a note anyway. 

Whether it's anywhere Daryl would know to look for it is anyone's guess. He wishes like hell, and not for the first time, that they'd thought to set out some kind of plan in the once-unlikely event that they'd get separated. 

The thing is, though, the best place to is the last place he'd seen him. Paul would've at least known to try to get back there, if only to look for the rest of them. 

And if Paul's spent more than a _week_ , now, in a bombed-out graveyard without movin' on yet, he probably ain't doing all that well. 

Fuck, he probably thinks they're all dead. 

\--- 

"Tell you what," Joe says, glancing back at him through the rearview. "Comin' up this way, we'll be able to drop you off first. Rest of us'll get started in town, and I'll come back for you tonight."

"Yeah?" He's well-versed in the wariness that comes, doesn't put too much hope into his voice.

"Yeah. I mean, no offense, but I know your heart ain't in it as far as crossing shit off the list goes, and we need to make up for lost time." He slows down, edging around a pitted-up patch of highway. "No need to waste any more on top of things."

"Thanks, man," Daryl keeps his eyes on the window in case anyone reads the excitement there that he's too startled to bury. "I appreciate it."

\--- 

_Monday, 10/13/2149, 12:47_

"This the turnoff?"

Daryl glances up and just manages to catch the highway sign.

"Yeah." His throat hurts; feels like there's something lodged there. "Should be." 

He slows, not to a crawl, without makin' Daryl ask. Which is good, because he ain't really seen the camp from this angle, 'cept-

His brain glances off the thought, and he can't let it. There's the bridge, he knows to look for that, and the grave pit, and the comms station, that should still be there but it had all been a blur at the end. He's having a hard time separating the _before_ from the _during_ and _after_. Vehicles and the trailer beds and huge swaths of burning plastic that he knows they'd started tearing down before they'd left. He can't remember what it is that he's supposed to expect. 

And when he sees it, creeping around another turn, then suddenly straight ahead, he doesn't recognize any of it. 

\--- 

The whole site's been _razed_ , stripped bare. There's debris, here and there, scattered around so much that if this wasn't it, if he hadn't _been there_ for it, might look like the same kind of nothin' they've been driving past for days. 

The comms station is- partially-still standing, but the shape's all wrong; he's only just barely recognizing it as they pass and his eyes lock instead on the sandy yellow-brown churned-up soil, and the blackened burnt oval just a few yards past that. 

He'd thought they were further apart. He has no sense of scale. 

"We're here," he says, almost too late, though the truck slows down gently enough that it's clear Joe's been expecting him to say so. 

There's other words stuck in his throat; he can't remember what they are. And it takes him a minute to realize two things. 

One, looking out across the wide, empty median, there's nobody here. 

And two?

This is where he's supposed to get out. As quickly as possible, without lookin' at anyone.

\--- 

_Monday, 10/13/2149, 13:04_

Joe loiters for a bit once Daryl's grabbed his pack out of the truck and they've set a marker at their meetup site. For a minute, it looks like Joe thinkin' about saying something, then thinks better of it. Just rummages around in back for a first aid kit that he hands over. 

"Well, good luck," he says, though already it's clear that there probably won't be any. If Paul was here, he probably would've made himself known by now. "Hope to see two of you 'round sunset, yeah?"

That's still hours away, but it's really only just barely enough time to search the area; it only might be enough time to pull himself together if he comes up empty. 

"Yeah."

And with that, Joe climbs back into the cab and takes off again. 

\--- 

It only takes him a few minutes and a cursory survey to determine that there ain't nobody here, and that apart from the comms station, there ain't nowhere anyone could really be. 

The comms station only takes a few seconds more, once he reaches it. The only difference between this and the rest of the site is that there's still enough here to _be_ wreckage. 

There's a busted up chair, its legs missing, wedged into the debris. It's facing down the slope towards the remains of the complex, and at first, it doesn't stand out at all. 

Then he starts noticing the dust that's settled all over everything else. The back and seat of the chair are, comparatively clean. 

When he sits down on it to think, he's still forcing himself to believe that it's just chance, that it had fallen like this in the wake of the bombing. 

But there's the stump of a dried-out carrot, swarmed by ants, in the rubble to his right, and two indentations worn into the dirt, just short of where his heels want to rest. 

It could've been anyone. 

\--- 

He's torn apart what's left of the comms center, he's scanned every inch of remaining wall, but there's no note, no sign from Paul or from anyone. If he sits down again, Daryl's not sure that he'll have the motivation to keep going. The pack jostling against his back with every step, he keeps his eyes on the ground to avoid tire tracks, drag marks and chunks of debris in his path. 

He tells himself he's just going to walk right by, because Paul's alive. The grave doesn't matter any more.

Only his feet start to drag and stop anyway, and he can't tear his eyes away. There are tracks, here, faded and wind-blown. He can make out standard issue bootprints and some that aren't, going in every direction. There's nothing useful, though, carved into the loose soil. Not even when he crouches to look. 

Next is the burn zone. This, he manages to avoid. 

He dimly remembers others tearing down camp as they'd prepared to retreat, though walking through it now, he doesn't recall them being this thorough. There's no way of telling what Paul might've managed to pick up, or what Jadis's scavengers had removed. But _someone_ obviously has done so; the portion of the complex where the soldiers had been quartered had still been intact when they'd left. 

So when he walks through and finds nothing of use, at least he's got the image of rough blue plastic cobbled into some kind of makeshift shelter to add to the list of signs to be searching for. 

But that's _all_ he's got.

\--- 

_Monday, 10/13/2149, 13:45_

When Joe comes back, they'll be heading up to Macon, so for now he widens his search in other directions. Jadis had said they'd pulled him out of the water, so he climbs down the embankment next to the bridge. More footprints here, churning up the mud, but they've been overtaken by the water, nothing's clear. 

The shadows are changing. He doesn't realize it until he glances downriver and sees a gap in the shadows sort itself out into a swath of broken and bent reeds.

The path becomes clearer a few yards south, but it's not until he's standing on a nearly-dry spot looking at the tamped-down grass that he's certain it's anything at all. 

Footprints again. Judging by the plant breakage, they're heading back towards the camp. 

He follows them anyway. They may not be going the right way, but he's on the right track. 

Casting out now and again as he enters the forest, he moves quickly. This path is first thing he's been certain of all day, even before it leads him back to the water, to the corrugated plastic, the drag marks, the mess of footprints leading every which way. 

\--- 

_Monday, 10/13/2149, 15:50_

Fuck certainty. All it's done is brought him here, but this, at least, feels right. 

There's a fire ring, a bed-down nudged into the earth only a few feet away. He nearly steps right onto arrow carved into the dirt, pointing back towards the landing site. The dirt's all rucked up next to the fallen tree.

Standard-issue boot prints. 

He begins circling out; he's not sure when it is that he begins shouting Paul's name. His own voice going hoarse is all he gets in response. 

Past the clearing and on the other side of the hill, deeper into the trees is another, larger clearing, littered with wheel ruts and heavy tripod indentations flattened grass. There's a garbage pit at the south end, only mostly buried. He doesn't dig too deeply, only enough to find some bones and a metal can lid. 

This is probably where Jadis and her crows had made camp. In between the large rocks at the side of the hill, he finds scraps of cigarettes. From here, he can see the fire ring. 

It's a good lookout point, for a bunch of assholes. 

They could've brought Paul with them. They could've helped more than they had. 

Instead, they'd just packed up their things, and left him.

They'd _known_ they were leaving him, and they'd done it anyway. 

He wishes they'd left some sign, though. A lean-to, some supplies, some _garbage_ lying around that he could kick or scatter or tear apart. 

Even if they had, there's no time. 

No time, either, to be sitting here on the rocks, chewing on what's left of his nails, waiting for the dizziness to pass. The shadows are getting longer, and the sun's starting to sink. 

He needs to start heading back if he's going to meet Joe. 

\--- 

_Monday, 10/13/2149, 16:58_

They hadn't seen any sign of Paul on the way down here, but he can't help peering into the cab of the truck, looking for one more head than there should be, for some expression on Joe's face that would tell him anything at all. 

The resignation when Joe pulls and looks at him, though? He can make _that_ out, all too clearly. 

"No luck?"

Shaking his head, Daryl heaves out a sigh, scanning the scenery one last time as he walks around to get into the front seat. 

"Bad news all around, then," Joe says, swinging the truck around. I'm sorry to hear that."

It'll be a few miles before Daryl bothers working up a response.


	19. Chapter 19

_Tuesday, 10/14/2149, 09:28_

It's a little surprising that he hasn't lost them completely. He'd even given up, last night, finally hunkering down under an overpass where he'd made a suitable shelter out of the available walls and the tarp he'd found back in Macon. When the sun had risen, bringing no new immediate crises with it, he'd been filled with a weird sense of calm. He knew where he was going, he'd gotten through the night undisturbed, and, solo or not, he was still en route to where he needed to be. 

That had changed around noon. One rock in his shoe and one peal of laughter ringing out across a valley was all it had taken for him to realize that whatever he was doing, he could be doing it better. 

_They_ , at least, had seemed to be enjoying themselves. 

\---

He's been following them all day and so far, they've shown no signs of seeing him. He'd even almost caught up with them a few miles ago, but then he'd noticed the weapons they'd been carrying, and had backed off to give himself time to reassess his approach. He's got his story ready, though, for when they do. The forest on either side of the road is dense enough that it's understandable that anyone could get lost in them, even someone from Earth. It's really just a matter of timing the moment when he decides to let himself be seen. 

Apart from their bicyclists swooping out to scout ahead before returning, the group moves in a tightly-knit pack. They seem more concerned with what they're heading towards than they are about the ground they've already covered. This isn't to say that they never look back.

Any wolves in the area would probably identify Paul as the straggler, and apart from the knife and the supplies Jadis had given him, he's not all that well armed. The best he can do is keep one eye on the group and the other on the underbrush. 

"So yeah. I came to in the middle of a fucking forest," Paul says to nobody at all, though the absurd thought worms its way through his head that a wolf might think he's in communication with some kind of functional backup and think twice. 

"There were these people, they talked strange, like aliens from some movie." He snorts, _yeah, that's a bit too on the nose_. "Shut up, I know, right? Anyway, they took one look at my confused, bedraggled ass and left me too. Pointed me towards the camp and I made my way back."

He misses _comms_. This game he's playing with himself is getting sad and pathetic enough as it is, no need to go dredging up the details. "Course, I guess you'd know what the hell happened there, more than me. Freaky, but I figured, everyone's cleared out, maybe they'd just gone into town- didn't have any better ideas, anyway. So I started walking."

He kicks a larger piece of gravel down the road ahead of him, not really putting any heart into his minor terraforming efforts. The bike, he's decided, is better as a cart for the time being, taking the weight of the bag he's got slung over his arm. Even with nobody watching, he's not sure his pride can handle any more near misses for a few more hours. 

"Headed for Macon, first. Thought, I don't know, it's a city, that's where people go, but there weren't any. Just this one guy who fights with a stick and, get this, believes that the dead can just get up and walk around. He was nice enough, though. Got on the radio to get in contact, but didn't have your frequency or whatever, so I guess you know how that went. Maybe not."

He loses the gravel in the grass by the side of the road and looks up to scan again for the group. The colony-width distance he's been maintaining makes them hard to see, and they're nearing a curve in the road. 

He quickens his pace, just a bit, and he keeps talking; if he winds up catching up to them on the other side of the bend, at least they'll hear him coming. 

"Thing is, though, and here's where it gets strange. He had this friend, Edwin. Seemed all right, kind of weird. He backed up everything Morgan was saying, and this is where it gets _really_ weird." He snorts, imagining a prompt where there is none. "Because I'm pretty sure he was the doctor that was researching the core samples, I'm almost sure of it. Just, he literally was getting in the truck and driving off when I realized. Small world, huh?"

Only it's not, it's really, _really_ not. He's been walking for hours, now, and the scenery's barely changed. He's heading north, per the map, but he doesn't know for certain that it's not a mistake.

"Here's the thing. He said that NATOPS had come down and closed operations at Atlanta. Wouldn't say why, just that everyone was scattering." His mouth's getting dry from all the talking, but he only has so much water to go on, and he doesn't need it yet. "Which... I mean, I know it's good. More people on the ground, should be safer, I just... the coincidence it too much. If what they're up to is anything like what they were doing with the rubidium, then I don't know what their intentions are."

"So honestly, if you can hear me, well, then I guess this means that you're dead and also that apparently I was wrong about there being some kind of afterlife. But if you'd like to give me a sign that everything's cool, now's the time. I promise I'm game to work my head around the paradigm shift." 

There's nothing. Just the road and the gravel and the wind that he's starting to get used to. He feels himself smiling; he knows it's bitter. 

"I'm just. If you don't mind, I'm gonna take that as a sign that you can't hear me, and that you can't because you're alive." 

\--- 

_Tuesday, 10/14/2149, 12:57_

He'd like to pretend it came up out of nowhere, but he's had the fight in his head three or four times in the past two hours now. "Fuck you anyway," he says, his voice not even echoing back to him in response. "You don't just leave people _stranded_ , that was the whole _point_ of coming here."

Because that's just the thing. Maybe it's something Earth would do, or NATOPS, but Daryl? Sasha and the rest of them? He'd thought they'd try more, that they'd be better than that, but after months and light years, apparently Paul's just a bridge too far. 

Maybe they're still doing what they came out here to do. Maybe he's going to get to Atlanta to find Sasha going toe to toe with the local brass on Colony One's behalf, Dwight and Carl judiciously making themselves scarce as he walks over to wherever Daryl's idly waiting so he can ask him, in terms that he'll understand, _just what the fuck_.

At least if they're all dead, none of this- this road and the blisters on his feet, this gnawing worry, these thoughts swirling around his head- is deliberate. Because yes, it's true: none of them had been in control when the attack had come down. 

But someone could've at least thought to look for him, leave him a message, _anything_. 

But no, they'd fucked off whatever path of least resistance had been available to them, and they hadn't looked back. 

He kind of hopes that, once he arrives in Atlanta, he _does_ see them there. He'd pass by the NATOPS soldiers who'd stared back at him so blankly, round, their eyes downcast as they point him in the direction of the commanding officers. He'd round a corner of the base and find his tea, pleading their case ham-fistedly, getting shut out of whatever conference room they'd gotten shoveled into, ignored and futile. He'd walk right past them into that room, ask who's in charge and explain it in the terms these Earth assholes need to hear, he'd argue his points, talk to someone himself, and save the whole fucking colony, just to see the ashamed looks on their faces. 

Another breath, though, and the fantasy's falling apart, scattering like gravel against the thought of just finding his crew again, getting that much bedrock back under his feet. 

\--- 

_Tuesday, 10/14/2149, 13:45_

Teeth on his heels. Every sound is a threat, closer and louder than it ought to be, and if he stops to listen carefully, he's sure the source will catch up to him. 

There haven't been any wolves yet; maybe they've left that territory behind, because the group is starting to veer northeast into the forest. If what's left of his map's correct, it's only a narrow strip of nature preserve they'll travail before they'll be connecting with the highway on the other side.

The progress is much more slow-going, under the trees. He keeps losing the trail, then finding it again, well-worn enough that he knows he shouldn't be having this much trouble staying on it. The shadows shift, coming through at weird angles until they disappear completely, and it takes him longer than he should to realize that clouds are moving in, taking away the sun, because he's too busy coming to terms with the fact that he's got no idea whether or not he's even still on the _map_. This was a mistake- _all_ of this- and he can't even pinpoint the exact moment in which he'd made it. 

He's hungry, he's tired, he's more lost now than he'd been a few hours ago, and he doesn't want to be here but he's trying not to panic, he just needs to find the _road_ again. 

\--- 

It feels like he's still going in roughly the right way, but then he hears it: the hum of a vehicle passing by. It's too far away to give him any real hope, but _real_ enough to have him shifting his direction. After half an hour, though, the ground begins to grow soft and swampy under his feet. 

There's no river here that he can see- and no path- but there are fewer trees. The plants here are shorter, denser at waist height. 

He hears something crack, sudden in the distance, judging by the echo, and whips his head toward the sound, but then his boot sinks down too suddenly, but he manages not to fall into the mud, though every movement brings him closer, sucks him in more, and this is it, this is how he's going to die, lost in the woods in mud turned to quicksand, and-

-he manages to free his boot with a _squelch_ , but the only reason he doesn't overbalance and fall is because the bo staff's hit rock or solid ground, giving him tenuous traction enough to retreat. 

\--- 

_Tuesday, 10/14/2149, 14:15_

It's the reeds, he figures out, finally. They grow in the waterlogged soil; as long as he steers clear of where they're densest, he'll make it through all right. 

Well, he'll make it _through_ , at any rate. 

Following the edge of the growth to the left-hopefully to the west- he finds that it leads back towards the way he came. Instead, he goes right, keeping to solid ground for the most part, as fast as he can.

Waterlogged, his right foot moves more slowly than the left, but it's not just that. Every step becomes a deliberation unto itself. He's moving, but he doesn't know what he's moving _towards_. 

Cresting a low hill, he lets himself eat some food, drink some water, rest until the chill starts to set in. And he scans the view, hoping for any sign of a nearby road. 

He's not that lucky, but there's a line through the undergrowth, cutting too straightly across the valley below to be made by anything other than humans.

\--- 

_Tuesday, 10/14/2149, 15:03_

The cloud cover is unsettling- he knows what it could bring- but he's starting to develop an appreciation for it. It's not yet sunset, but the light is more even, the path easier to follow without the sharp contrast of shadows and light poking through the canopy. Everything looks muted and even, like the colony in the months between constant orange sunlight and its complete absence. 

At least then, though, there'd be electrical lights down on the strip, up in the rigging, creaking out of opened windows or glowing brightly in the greenhouses. And at least then, he'd known what they all meant and where he _was_.

\--- 

_Tuesday, 10/14/2149, 16:18_

For a minute, he thinks there actually _is_ a light up ahead, though it's just a bright green and white sign reflecting stray beams of the sun that's fighting to come out, glinting through a break in the trees. He quickens his pace towards it, the relief bone-deep just to have any kind of landmark at all. 

He's about halfway up the hill, close enough to see, when sudden, sharp laughter causes him to freeze. 

He listens, trying to trace back up to the source, and then he hears the voices. People talking. 

Another few steps around the overgrowth and he can see a swath of road, a sign reading _Rest Stop_ and the roof of a building that had probably never looked new even when it had been. 

"Water's still good," a man's voice says, just on the other side of the building. 

"Gonna have to call it for the night anyway," a woman's voice responds.

It's the group- it's got to be- and this, he realizes, is probably as good a time to actually make contact as any. He continues closer, giving the building a wide berth so he doesn't startle anyone. There are bikes leaned up against the side of the building, and then a pile of packs, and- he's just about to call out when he notices four of them hunkered on the ground.

They're butchering an animal; it's gruesome and unnerving enough that he loses his words, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene.

He doesn't even know what's triggering the gut-shot fear response until he looks at the animal and sees what looks like shoes. 

"Hello, friend!"

The tone gives him whiplash even before he notices that the two men are walking towards him, striding easily with their weapons in their hands. It doesn't match the smile on the long-haired man's face, but the w-shaped gash in his forehead... on _all_ of their foreheads... seems to fit right in. 

"Uh. Hi," he says, raising one hand, like he's just passing by an acquaintance on the street. Only everyone else is getting up, watching him warily. Except for the man on the ground. 

"Hi there," the long haired man, evidently the leader. "What's your name?"

"Paul." He should run. He _knows_ he should run. 

"Paul, I'm Owen. Nice to meet you." He smiles again, all bad teeth, but he doesn't come any closer. "One question, though, are you with these two miscreants?"

He means the man on the ground, and the other man, tied to the _handicapped parking_ sign with a black scarf pulled completely over his face. He's alive, if the flinch he gives at Owen's voice is any indication. 

"Uh. No. I..." 

Paul needs to go. _Now_. 

But there are more of them than there are of him, and there are too many bared teeth to contemplate. 

"I was just lost in the woods. Heard voices."

"Well, that's all well and fine, then." He follows Paul's probably-horrified gaze to the bloodied body on the ground. "Though... yeah. This doesn't exactly look good, I get it. See, we had a bit of an altercation. Just came here to avail ourselves of the facilities, and these two came out and attacked us out of nowhere."

Paul doesn't know what to say to that. Unfortunately, one of the women, who's been whispering tensely to the man next to her, decides to step up and fill the void. 

"Owen," she says, eyes wide as she steps forward, "he's the one I saw earlier."

Owen sighs regretfully, swiveling his head back towards Paul. "Is that true?"

He shakes his head, knowing they've got him on the defensive and not knowing how to turn it around. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" More certain now, she scoffs back at the woods. "You've been following us all day." 

Owen laughs; it's a cringe-inducing sound as he gestures at the man tied to the sign. "You've got to admit. Sticking to the road might've put you on the wrong side of a washed out bridge, but it would've been a better plan. See, we've gone days without seeing another living soul, and suddenly, all this inside of one hour."

"I'm not with them." He states, as plainly as he can. "I don't even know-"

"Right now, the mood I'm in? I'm thinkin' what you know matters a whole lot less than what you've got in that pack of yours."

Paul shifts his weight away from the blond man flanking his left, preparing to run. There's no chance anyone's missed the movement, and unfortunately, it means that the shorter, wiry man on his right has the perfect opportunity to grab at his pack. 

Paul shoves back, but not quickly enough that he doesn't see the map, which he'd shoved in the pack's side pocket- being pulled away. 

He grabs for it, barely surprised when it tears along the already-worn creases, but disappointed all the same when he comes back with only half of it clenched in his fist. 

"Hey, now," Owen says, forestalling the fight that's about to break out. "Nothing to hide, nothing to fear. We're all friends, here."

_Right_. 

Paul takes a careful breath, pretends not to notice that the larger man is inching closer. 

When he inevitably makes another grab for the pack, Paul swipes out with the staff, cracking him against the forearm with enough force to elicit a pained yelp. It's the loudest sound he's heard all day, right up until the moment that Owen yells. 

After that, he's just running. 

\--- 

There are more of them than there are of him, and it doesn't take them as long as he'd like for them to surge together to give chase. 

Torn map shoved in his pocket, and staff in both hands, he runs down to the road, trying to get as much distance as he can, but it's a bad plan; there's no cover, nothing to slow them down. They're closing fast. 

He doesn't even want to risk turning around to see how many of them are how close; when he gives in and looks behind him, the women on the bikes are less than ten feet away from him and it's all he can do to get the staff swung out towards the one that's about to run him over. 

Dodging to the left, he turns and swings towards her midsection. Hits her arms, from the way she goes down; the other one is already swerving out of range and circling back but right now, for this instant, balance and gravity are on his side. Without stopping, he glances back at the four men closing in on him and just tries to run _faster_.

As soon as he's at the bottom of the slope, he goes off road, scrambling up the rocks; some of them are slippery, some of them are loose, but none of them are small enough to throw, and he needs his hands- what little use they are if he doesn't want to drop the staff- for climbing anyway. There's a failed grab at his heels, but he's almost to the top and he kicks back against the rocks as hard as he can, hoping to loosen something in his wake. 

It doesn't work, but it gives him enough of a push to get up onto the smoother slope of the hill. This is as good a place as any, so he turns around, swiping the staff in front of him, only to find that one of them- the tall, blond man- is too close for it to do any fucking good at all. He's shoved back, barely managing to keep his balance- he doesn't think he can roll out of _anything_ with this pack on, but he distance is distance and he's already gone low when the man lunges again, toppling him back, 

He's ready for it, though, falling on his side while kicking his foot up enough to use the man's momentum against him, sending him sprawling but still within grabbing range. 

The scarily calm thought to bludgeon his skull with the end of the staff is interrupted by the two men coming at him from either side. Owen's got a knife, the other man's got a gun, and he's at a better angle, so Paul swings at his arm. His stomach plummets as he feels the staff glancing off-just slightly- before connecting with the side of his head. 

Owen dodges towards his friend, and this is probably the last break that Paul's going to get, so he doesn't stop to fight. 

Ten seconds later, barging into the woods as a bullet flies somewhere overhead- hopefully not as close as he thinks it does- he's wishing he _had_. One good hit to their leader, and maybe that would've called them all off. Instead, he can hear Owen let out an ear-piercing whistle. 

"Adam! Sarah! We're hunting, _c'mon!_ "

\--- 

His pack's heavy, cutting into his shoulders, pressing unevenly against his lower back. His hands are chapped from gripping the staff, and he doesn't know how long he's been running, climbing, tripping over tree roots and trying to _hide_ , he just knows that ever time he thinks he's cleared enough ground to risk slowing to rest, he hears rustling behind him. When he realizes that it's just rain in the leaves, he affords himself a relieved deep breath, which is ruined by the sight of Owen and another one- Adam, presumably- less than fifty yards away. 

They've stopped half a dozen times to signal the others; Paul never knows where the responding whistles are coming from. Sometimes far away, sometimes _far_ too close. 

He doesn't see any of the others, though. And for as much as he's wearing them out, he's wearing himself out, too. The ground's only going to get wetter, the undergrowth more slippery. 

It's better to take them out now, if he can find a good place. Even ground on the very edge of uneven ground. Cover that will help him more than it will them. 

He continues on up the slope, ducking the worst of the branches and letting the smaller ones scrape at the side of his neck, which itches enough to become a distraction if he'll let it. And finally, midway up the hill he reaches a plateau, spots a place in the underbrush to stash his pack. He loses a moment, deliberating, but without it, he can move freely. And he's as warmed up as he's ever going to be. 

Even through the leather, the blast of cool air at his back is almost refreshing as he keeps low, breaking off to the right towards the gap in the trees; he doesn't want them seeing him until he's ready. 

And then he stands there, staff set, letting himself catch his breath, and waits. 

He's careful to keep a large tree between him and them, not wanting to give them another clear shot. Most likely, they'll flank him from every side. 

Maybe it's just his focus, but it's like the entire forest's gone quiet, waiting.

He can hear them approaching. Peering around the side of the tree, he sees Owen flanking off towards the right. They're going to try flanking him. He just needs to see which one of them has the-

-there's a rustling behind him, loud and close enough that he spins, seeing nothing, but the distraction costs; a bullet hits the tree close enough that he can see shavings splintering off as he drops low and spins, breaking cover and putting himself nearly face to face with Owen's maniacal grin, which is rapidly turning to horror as he looks up and-

There's a fucking _monster_ flying overhead, a dark blur of claws and fangs against the sky as it soars, crashing and slashing into him with a heavy growl. 

_Wolves_ , Paul thinks, as they tumble, the beast's huge head swiping down, open-jawed, to tear at Owen's neck.

And then his brain, processing the most banal of the details in his frozen, panicked state, attempts a correction. 

_No._

_Tiger?_


	20. Chapter 20

_Tuesday, 10/14/2149, 17:02_

He can't move, can't tear his eyes away though he should, he knows he _should_ , because Owen might be-

-Owen might be getting _eaten alive_ by a fucking _tiger_ less than ten feet away from him and there's still the matter of the other man who-

Paul flinches so hard at the sound of the gunshot that for a second, he _knows_ he's been hit, that he's just living out the last few seconds of shock before the pain sets in; if he opens his eyes, he'll see the blood. He won't be able to pretend anymore that it's not all over. 

"You can open your eyes," a man says. "We got him."

Somehow, he manages to cringe, waiting for the final blow; instead there's a whistle, softer than the ones perforating his existence all day long. Something big is moving away, and it's that more than anything that has him cracking his eyes open. Just enough to see a gore-spattered swath of forest floor and leaves settling in something horrible's wake. 

"You all right?" a man- different voice, different angle, calls out. He sounds reassuring, almost amused. 

Paul takes a breath- realizes, belatedly, that he has to let one out before letting another in, and the whole process is shaky at best. There's a gurgling noise off to his left that he _can't_ register right now. 

"Dude, it's okay, I got you."

He nods, because he's heard him, even if he can't exactly believe him. Another breath, and his hand finds purchase against the rough, damp bark of tree; slowly, he manages to pull himself up. Steeling himself, he turns around. 

There's a very large man giving him a very concerned look from ten feet away. 

"Hi," he says, waving the gloved hand that isn't holding a sharp-looking spear. "I'm Jerry."

He blinks. The size of him and the armor don't mesh well with the relaxed way he's carrying himself. "Paul."

"Nice to meet-" his face drops, suddenly. "Oops, hang on." 

He turns to watch as Jerry goes to Owen's shocked comrade and strikes the spear down, straight through his heart. 

"Sorry about that," he says ruefully. "Looked like a bad dude, but. Can't let people suffer, y'know?" 

Paul can't do more than nod.

"Well, anyway," Jerry shrugs, "welcome to the Kingdom."

Straightening, he walks up past him, ignoring the leaves stuck to the armor plates on his sleeves, like this is something he does every day; his attention's been snagged by something up the hill- possibly the tiger- but Paul's too hung up on the word _kingdom_ , in the midst of all this, to track him. 

"It's all right, your majesty," Jerry says. "We're clear."

He remembers Spencer talking about it, but he can't remember-

"I will pay you a million dollars to knock that off," a woman's voice replies. "Everyone all right?"

Paul looks up, a thousand questions in his head, a million things he needs to be remembering, but by the time he can muster up his voice, all he can manage is a hoarse, "You're the queen?"

She looks like one; backlit by the sun like this, her short gray curls are like a halo, and there's a sharpness to her eyes a wryness to her mouth that oozes solid and terrifying competence. 

"Hardly," she says, with an irritated smirk at Jerry, who shrugs, turning back to him as he grins. Just then, the radio on her hip chirps to life. 

"Bloody Mary, Holy Ghost, come in,"

"We're here," she says, holding the rifle with one hand like she could use it at any minute. "All's well. Our girl making it back all right?" 

"Drone's still got visual," the man replies, impatiently. "Now why, pray tell, aren't you following?"

"We've got a visitor, sussing him out now. Give us ten minutes." 

"I'm already watching clock with rapt attention. Keep us apprised, lest we let slip the dogs of war prematurely."

The woman- Bloody Mary, apparently- grins. "Shut up. See you back home." 

The smile cuts out the moment the radio does, her eyes cutting back to Paul, her hands securing her grip on the rifle. 

"Whats your name?"

"Paul Rovia."

"Hello, Paul. You aligned?"

He remembers to breathe. "I'm sorry?"

"Where are you from, and who do you know?"

"I don't know anyone, I'm not... _from_ here."

"Try again."

It's too big of a question; he doesn't know how to explain it. "I'm telling the truth."

"So, what, you just fell from the sky out of nowhere?"

"Actually," Paul laughs, brokenly, then shakes his head, which causes a wave of dizziness that's slow to fade. "The landing was fine, it's been downhill ever since."

Jerry leans in, his good-natured smirk waning on his face. "Don't get cute, dude."

Paul takes a breath, trying to pull his thoughts together. Probably winds up staring more at the rifle than he should. "I'm sorry. It's just. I'm, uh. I'm from the colony." He coughs, pointing up at the sky- for all he knows, it's completely the wrong direction- and tries to get to the point. "Colony One. A few of us came down here on a ship. SA attacked, I got left behind, and I'm just looking for my fucking _people_." 

Saying it out loud feels a bit like a punch to the chest, as if he's not already _well aware_ that he shouldn't be here. Not on Earth or in these woods. Not in the _Kingdom_ , so suddenly, or so close to the business end of this woman's gun.

"Sorry," he says, trying not to recoil as she steps closer; he's too scattered, right now, to think of a better defense, though he's not sure that he doesn't need one. "It's been a rough few days."

Only Mary, her mouth is twisting into a frowning smile as recognition dawns on her face. 

"Holy shit," she laughs. "You're _Gregory's_ kid."

Quick as the amusement had come, it's gone again, and she's raising the gun at him. "Dammit, Jerry,"

Jerry's already heading towards him; Paul trips over his feet, dodging out of the way, and he's surprised when it works. 

"Thought I took care of it," Jerry mutters, passing him by. 

"You don't want to be the other kind of holy ghost, you stand your ass _clear_ ," she argues, following after him, gun aimed at something behind him. 

Owen's man has staggered to his feet and is stumbling blindly towards them, reaching out with one mangled arm and following Jerry as he backs off, warily, eyes wide. "The fuck?"

Bloody Mary plants a bullet through Owen's skull, and all Paul can think about is how badly his ears are hurting as he tries not to see the gore spraying out into the air. 

She says something to him, afterwards, but he can't track what it might be. It's not until they're walking- each of them on either side of him in a way that feels good, even if it's also feeling a lot like they're transporting a prisoner back to the brig- that he remembers his pack. 

His head's not sorted enough to reason out why moving suddenly towards it might be a bad idea. 

"Want me to carry it?" Jerry sounds like he's underwater when he talks, but more importantly, he hadn't held that spear to his throat for even attempting to move out of turn. "You look like you've been through the wars."

Paul shakes his head- mostly still trying in vain to free himself of another wave of nausea- and hefts the pack back onto his shoulders. 

He's lost, he's _completely_ at sea, but he's sure that whatever war this is, it's not anywhere near through with him just yet.


	21. Chapter 21

_Wednesday, 10/15/2149, 07:10_

Daryl'd been moving for maybe half an hour before he'd actually woken up. It's the pain in the ass process of making coffee that does it. On the RV, the kitchen had been so small that it had been an easy, brainless thing. Here, it requires rummaging through two crates for filters and grounds, a trek out to the tank bolted to the truck for water, and ten minutes fucking with the camp stove just to get it going. And at least on the ship, when he'd be doin' the same, there'd be faces he'd actually wanted to see comin' round to fill their cups. 

He's halfway finished with his sludge before he realizes that Tony and Harley ain't back from their scouting run yet; it's not until he finds Dan and Joe cursin' out the radio that it sinks in, the kind of problem it could be. 

They've already spent two nights in this goddamned warehouse. It seemed like anything special from the outside, but when they'd broken into the loading dock, they'd found walls plastered with Amedzon logos and shelves stacked deep with boxes. Medication, bandages, all sorts of shit. Even with half of it being expired, it'll be enough to keep the hospital running for months. 

Maybe even enough to send some of the overstock up to the colony, though that's putting the cart _miles_ in front of the horse.

In the short term, it had meant that they've already burned an entire day sorting through and pulling out the essentials. They'd quickly realized that there wasn't room in the two vehicles they'd brought, so he and Billy'd gone out looking for a trailer on foot, to save fuel. By the time they'd located one, gone back for the truck, and gotten it hitched, seven hours had passed. 

Tony and Harley'd been long gone by then, which had pissed him off. 

"Don't worry," Joe'd placated him, in a tone _just_ this side of patronizing. "Told them to keep an eye out, bring your man back if they come across him."

It hadn't done much against the bone-deep knowledge that it should be _him_ out doing the looking, and neither had Joe's justification. Apparently, solo runs were enough of a break in the routine- and from the company- that they had a system to decide who got the privilege of going out unattended. 

But then Tony and Harley'd missed their check in, which apparently weren't all that uncommon. With all the hills and valleys, the odds were good that they'd either found themselves in a dead zone, or had wandered out of range for handhelds. Joe'd been concerned enough to set up a watch rotation in case they sent up a flare, but that had been extent of it. 

Daryl'd spent half the night staring up at the warehouse's ceiling, increasingly convinced that it was something else. Joe'd been tight-lipped when it came down to why the two of them had gone scouting in the first place, especially given the huge haul the rest of them had spent the day sorting out, but that wasn't Daryl's biggest concern. 

Being stuck amongst the hypodermic needles, bandages, and drugs he couldn't pronounce while Tony and Harley were out finding Paul, _that_ had just been wounded pride. But the thought of them actually stumbling across him with all this radio silence? If not for the fact that Joe kept the keys on him, Daryl would've found himself heading out at three in the morning, going to look on his own. 

And now, by official count, Tony and Harley've missed two check-ins. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/15/2149, 09:00_

Joe actually manages to make contact with NATOPS at Atlanta, but it hasn't put anyone in a better mood. It may provide proof that Joe's radio does, in fact, work, but the Atlanta assholes won't provide any sort of update regarding anything they might've heard about the convoy heading to DC. They won't confirm the sudden appearance of one Paul Rovia at their gates. Instead, they're just transmitting the same message over and over again.

" _Attention all outposts and allies. Order 1182 is still in effect until further notice. The following is a safety alert that is cleared for retransmission along all official and unofficial channels: Be on the lookout for a person wanted for questioning in an ongoing investigation pertaining to NATOPS security. Suspect's name is Dr. Edwin Jenner, mid to late 40's. He is caucasian, 6 feet tall, with graying blond hair, last sighted riding a bicycle south along I-75. While he is not considered dangerous, the following reward has been approved for his immediate safe return to any Atlanta guard post: four standard GM fuel cells and one pallet of MREs. Information pertaining to his whereabouts will be rewarded with one quarter pallet upon independent confirmation of accuracy._ "

"Shut the hell up" Joe mutters irritably, sneering as the message begins to replay. 

"You know how the valley is," Len points out, ignoring the broadcast and watching Joe shut it all down. "Signal's rough down there."

"There's been no signal flares, no contact, no _nothing_." Joe shakes his head, standing up, then reaching down for his lukewarm coffee, moving slow like he's wary of spilling it all over the console. "It's official, we've got to go looking for them. We leave in ten." 

"Should probably get this place sealed up," Daryl points out, hating himself for doing so because of the delay it'll cause. 

They'd busted the door open on the way in; right now there's nothin' preventing anyone else from doing the same. And while there's enough to go around, it ain't like anyone's sittin' here talkin' about how they want to leave the cache open for random looters. 

"Good idea," Joe decides. "Let's stash the trailer in here, too. Would rather come back for it than have it slowin' us down."

So that's his morning sorted out, then. The sooner this place is secured, the sooner they can get going. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/15/2149, 10:21_

Fixing the door only takes fifteen minutes. In that time, he overhears enough conversation to know that while everyone knows know where Tony and Harley were supposed to _be_ , nobody outside of Joe has any clue as to what the fuck the two of them were supposed to be _doing_. 

It's worrying, so it ain't a surprise, how short everyone's tempers are. 

It's quiet as they get into the van and head north out of town, and it's tight, even with everything Dan and Len had taken out to make room. It's only gonna be worse if the truck's been damaged or lost and they wind up having to bring Tony and Harley back with them. 

They'll cross that bridge when they come to it, so Daryl does't ask. Instead, he sits up front with Joe, listening to him ramble distractedly about the war. Judging by everyone else's silence, it's nothing the rest of them haven't heard before. 

"...as far as those assholes are concerned, _everyone's_ Social Alliance," Joe grumbles. He's got his eyes on the road, but it's plain to see that he's still irritated about Atlanta and worried about his men. "So they huddle in their paranoid little citadels, makin' everything a complete pain in the ass for their allies because they can't get their shit together to go down and deal with shit like Oceanside. Meanwhile, we're out here, taking care of shit that they should damn well be handling _themselves_."

"What's Oceanside?"

"SA base, down on the gulf coast," Len chimes in from the back.

"Officially, yeah," Joe nods, "but they've got reach like nothin' you've ever seen."

_Shit._ "They come out this way?"

"Not as much as NATOPS seems to want to believe. See, Oceanside sent 'em packing down at Cape Canaveral a few years back, and with New York falling, now they control all Atlantic trade- _all_ of it. You head down to the coast and look out, it's like the last ten years haven't even happened, there're so many ships down there. You'd think that alone would be worth trying to come to some sort of accord, but neither side's willing to bend or forgive." Joe sighs, slowing down for the turn. "Guess it means job security for grunts like us, though, eh?"

Watching the trees roll by, Daryl nods distractedly, like it's not sending up a spike of concern that he can't do anything about. 

Because if NATOPS won't even make peace with the assholes on their own continent, what the fuck kind of effort are they gonna make for an entirely different planet? He wonders if Sasha knows, if anyone's mentioned it to her yet, and he misses her like anything. 

Sensing that Joe's scraped the bottom of the conversational barrel, Daryl asks, "What's 1182?"

It's Billy who answers; clearly parroting something he's heard several times before. "People tend to scramble like rats off a sinking ship whenever NATOPS decides to secure their stronghold."

"And you'd think that would clue them in to the fact that they're only fucking shit up worse," Len adds, helpfully. "Basically, it just means curfews for the official outposts and relay stations. And the rest of us just need to be ready for extra weirdness on the road."

"Like what?"

"Like two members of your crew going _MIA_ out of _nowhere_." Joe doesn't snarl, but it's close, and nobody else speaks for a very long time.

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/15/2149, 12:18_

"Rain's comin' in," Dan points out, as if the rest of them don't have eyes. 

"Almost there," Joe nods; there's a tightness around his mouth that's trying to cover the worry in his eyes, which haven't met anyone else's in miles, now. "If they ain't hunkered down here, they might've just gone up the road to the Perler stash."

It's the first Daryl's heard of it, but whatever it is, given the way the weather's looking and how little they've found so far, Tony and Harley'd probably already headed for it. 

He's about to say so when Len shouts from the back seat.

"There's the truck!"

They've already missed the exit to get over to the rest stop, but the highway's dead; turning around and backtracking is no big deal. They're trundling up the ramp when the first few raindrops splatter against the van's windshield. Out past it, nothing's moving. 

Joe's feet are the first on the ground. By the time Daryl and the rest of them have caught up, a few things are immediately apparent.

The truck's doors are shut, but not locked. There's nobody inside. 

There's not much left by way of gear, neither. Aside from the oversized generator they'd found the other day, the crates have been picked over, their contents strewn about.

Len raises his eyebrows at him; the two of them aren't the only ones waiting for a sign from Joe.

"Fan out," he says, expression grim. "Search the area."

The instant the order's given, Daryl already knows how this is going to play out: not well. Harley might be a bit of a fuckup, but Tony's solid enough. If they'd been able to get back here to straighten it all out, they would've. 

Joe's already got a handgun holstered at his belt; Dan grabs the shotgun out from under the seat, then passes out knives to the others; it only takes a minute. 

Daryl and Len go inside while the others spread out around the perimeter of the building. It's cold in here, thanks to the broken windows, and dark. Their footsteps echo off the dingy brown tile and crunch over vending machine glass. 

The men's room is empty; the roof's been prone to leaking, and probably will start up again before the day's out. The women's room is dry, but strewn with toilet paper and debris. They can't even get into the Family/Neutral bathroom, but there's no noise coming from inside. 

Outside, though, Dan's shouting. 

He follows Len out the closest door, leading to the back of the building, and then around the side to the front, nearly walking right into him- nearly _stabbing_ him- when he stops short. 

There'd been people here; there's still _most_ of a person here, sprawled and strewn out by the built-in campfire ring, bloody footprints surrounding it darkening spottily as the rain sprinkles down. 

Gun drawn, Joe's staring down at the mess, frozen; Dan and Billy are pacing around, stuck between trying not to look, and trying to search for any kind of answer. 

Thinking that if not for the chill, they probably would've smelled it from the other side of the rest stop, Daryl can't _not_ stare.

It being Harley, what's left of him. Daryl's pretty sure, though it's hard to tell with so much of his clothing and skin flayed open like that. It's down to the bone, in places. His intestines have been pulled out, piled almost neatly next to him; there are other organs left in the cavity under his twisted, broken ribs. 

His head, when Daryl looks at it straight on- is in one piece, except for the jagged gash cut into his forehead, gouging out one eye. 

Both of his legs are missing. One hasn't gone far, the other's not here at all. 

Billy makes a choked off noise that doesn't turn into words; it's the only sound that cuts through the rain, and Daryl doesn't want to know what kind of expression he'll see if he looks at his face, so he doesn't. 

Len does, though, and then he lets out a distressed, startled noise. "Joe?"

"What?" Joe's face is ashen, his jaw clenched shut, and he's blinking too quickly; Len's already scrambling over the low brick wall surrounding the bench-strewn patio; by the time Daryl comes up the rise enough to peer over, Len's already crouching down underneath one of the tables. 

The light's not good enough to see much of anything, but then the shadows move, and an image rights itself in his brain: feet, legs, arms crossed over someone's head.

"Tony?" Joe's already over the wall, crouching down, trying to grab him by the arm, but he's not moving. He can't.

"A little help here!" Joe shouts. "Someone grab the bolt cutters!"

Daryl's the first to move, edging past a still dazed-looking Billy and running around the front to the van, quick enough that it doesn't occur to him that he could be running into a trap until he's opening the door, and finding that he hadn't. 

The bolt cutters are underneath the front passenger seat, like always, but it's not reassuring when everything else has gone so completely off the fucking rails. 

\--- 

Tony's wrists had been tied together, then tied to the concrete table leg, with heavy thick plastic; his wrists are bloody and raw and his eyes don't settle once he's freed. He's hyperventilating, soaked through with sweat or rain, it's hard to tell. Joe, Dan and Billy are trying to get him out from underneath, but he's too uncoordinated.

"Tony," Joe keeps repeating his name. "Tony, what happened?"

Tony's eyes are squeezed shut, and his face is oddly slack. Through foamy red-specked spittle and cracked lips, he moans out something that might be a word. 

" _Tony?_ "

His eyes shoot open, wide and terrible as his shoulder twitches violently; then his eyes lose what little focus they'd had as they roll back, and his head lolls forward. 

Even from ten feet away, Daryl can see the dent in the back of his skull, the crust of dried froth set into his hair. 

Almost worse, though, he can see that he's still breathing. 

\---

There's an argument that Daryl doesn't take part in. He knows how it's going to have to end before it even starts. It drags on even when Billy, Dan and Joe start shouting each other's words back at each other. 

Len's the first to edge back to join him, eyes wide, face numb, clearly leaning on pragmatism to just stay afloat. 

"Gotta find tarps," he says. 

They're hauling them out of the back of the van when the gunshot goes off; the sound startles a thick flock of birds out of the trees over half a mile out. 

\--- 

The _Wolves Not Far_ sprayed across the front of the rest stop doesn't mean anything to him, though the dripping dried-blood red gets the intent across. 

Daryl keeps his eyes down, idly tracking bursts of footprints and gouged tire marks whenever they cross his path. Tony's remains are heavier than ashes, still warm, but at least he and Len have something to do; the others don't have that luxury.

Once the bodies are wrapped and laid next to each other on the grass, Len stands, making his way back to the others. They're standing in the rest stop's vestibule, maybe trying to come up with some sort of plan, mostly staring blankly at the highway like they already know it doesn't matter. 

Daryl's been there. Knows better than to say shit about it, too. 

He ain't sure how much of a part of this he is, so instead of joining them, he starts following the tracks. For the most part, they go around in circles. Some go back to the road heading north, others end in grass too damp and wind-blown to retain any trace. 

He's searching the longer grass without admitting to himself that he's doing so. He's looking for things he doesn't want to find, and tries to convince himself that it's a good thing that nothing _is_ all he finds. 

"Daryl!" Joe's calling out; he looks up to find that he'd wandered farther than he'd meant to, fifty yards at least. "C'mon, we gotta go!" 

They've been loitering long enough that if anyone was nearby, their noise should've drawn them out by now. But there's nobody. No sign of the attackers, and no Paul. 

Daryl cuts straight across back towards them; he's reaching on the edge of the once-mown grass when he catches sight of the scrap of paper. 

It's not, as he'd initially hoped, a pack of cigarettes, but it's less weather-worn than the rest of the occasional debris he's trained his eyes to ignore. Just curious enough for the effort, he reaches down to pick it up without breaking stride. 

It's just stupid lines, nothing to-

No. 

It's part of a map. 

And there, next to a heavily drawn X at the paper's clean edge, are the words _RV Landing_ , written in Paul's hand. 

" _Daryl! _"__

__He shakes his head, quickens his pace, blood pounding in his ears. About halfway there he realizes Joe and Dan are watching him intently._ _

__It ain't a warning, but it reads like one.  
Without breaking stride, he goes back to scanning the ground, meandering slightly to the left so that his path leads him to another scrap of paper. _ _

__This one's old, soaked, dirty nothing when he picks it up- a magazine article featuring home organization tips- but he makes a show of examining it as he gets closer. Using it as a shield to hide his movements, he crumples the map into a small ball, then crumples the larger one, tossing it on the ground._ _

__"You find anything?"_ _

__He shrugs, the map palmed in his hand. "Tracks all over the place."_ _

__Joe straightens at this. "Heading?"_ _

__"North, from the looks of it. Couldn't really follow most of them."_ _

__"Shit." Joe turns to shake his head at Dan, then back to Daryl. "All right, well. North it is."_ _

__\---_ _

__Nobody's said it since he's returned, but they're not heading back to Macon, and he knows what this is. They're going after whoever it was who did this; everyone's too wound up for it to be anything else._ _

__He is too, but his reasons are less about their dead compatriots than they are about the piece of paper wedged into his pocket. He'd already glanced at it, but he wants to take it out, take a more studied look. Prove to himself, one way or the other, that Paul either had been there, or hadn't._ _

__Because if he'd just been foolin' himself, seein' what he'd wanted to see, then there's no reason to be this worried._ _

__\---_ _

___Wednesday, 10/15/2149, 15:34_ _ _

__The storm's finally rolled in, rain pooling on the windshield as quickly as the blades wipe it away, but inside the van the air feels ominously still._ _

__The silence is the only thing holding back a spike of violence that could come up from anywhere, and Daryl doubts he's the only one who's thinking about it. One of the others would've broken it by now, had it not been the case._ _

__Eventually, Joe turns off the highway and their two vehicles are winding through the overly complicated parking lot of an old strip mall; from what Daryl can tell it's anchored by the Walmart on one end, and a burned down grocery store on the other. Across a wide parking lot and on the other side of a drive-up bank, wedged between the motorcycle parts store and the minute clinic is a shop called Uniform Advantage. This last, he's surprised to find when they park, is apparently their destination._ _

__"The hell're we doin' here?"_ _

__"It's a safe house," Joe points, voice monotone. "Good vantage point, solid locks, nothing of interest in the storefront. Len, Daryl, keep a lookout."_ _

__Joe's not wrong. The windows are plastered thick with two rows of faded posters advertising mens and women's scrubs, kitchen shoes, and the like. There are gaps between them, here and there, but the glass is still intact, unlike the windows of the Harley store and the minute clinic._ _

__They get out, the others deliberately heading through the clinic's broken glass door inside while Daryl and Len do what they can under the awning, wincingly scanning for any observers. The parking lot is awash in sheets of rain and nothing else. Someone could easily be holed up in the Walmart, but nobody's going out of their way to be caught outside in weather like this. The truck and the van are probably fine, out here._ _

__Lightning flashes across the sky, and Daryl's startled at how much of a view he actually has, here. They're situated on the top of a hill. In good weather, he could probably see for miles._ _

__"C'mon," Joe calls out after a long minute, waving them tiredly into the clinic._ _

__The whole place has been looted; someone's made camp in the waiting area for a while, someone else has used the back office for a toilet. Passing through is unpleasant, but the back door unlocks onto a windowless shared corridor, and the blandly labeled _UA Staff Only_ door is locked tight. _ _

__Joe's got the key, and they filter inside. Lock the door behind them. Joe turns on a flashlight, low, swinging along a wall packed with cardboard boxes until it reaches the stockroom's door._ _

__There's nobody on the other side of it, just picked-over racks of scrubs in patterns that Daryl's already used to seeing. Clearly, this is where they'd sourced the hospital and kitchen staff's clothing. Most of the still-full racks have been pushed closer to the windows, nearly densely packed enough to form a solid wall._ _

__"All right. Everyone, here's where we'll be based tonight. Four hour watches, front of the shop and upstairs in the clinic. Be ready to move at first light." He nods back towards the storeroom, and Daryl follows with the rest of the group. "I want everyone armed to the teeth, so you'd best avail yourselves of the stockpile. We lost two good men today, and it should not have happened."_ _

__It's hard to tell whether the disinterested shrugs he gets in return are because everyone already understands the score, or because nobody feels up to risking meeting anyone else's eye. He doesn't want to be loud about it, but the words come out too quiet. "What's the plan?"_ _

__"Heading into the preserve, see what's what," Joe says. "We'll rattle some tents, hunt some wolves, and paint some signs of our fucking own."_ _

__\---_ _

___Wednesday, 10/15/2149, 21:05_ _ _

__Daryl knows what is is, mourning your own. But today's dead ain't his, and it's a long, awkward evening he spends trying to blend into the background. They eat, and nobody talks, and he's relieved to be dismissed up top for his guard shift._ _

__It smells damp, like mold that's had a long time to set in._ _

__The clinic's been picked down to the bones, then picked over again. Two of the four examination rooms have broken windows, allowing wind and rain to wash in._ _

__The best view is in the small corner lobby at the top of the stairs. Not that there's much of one, between the dark and the rain. Some of the window seals have failed; fog's crept up between the panes of glass here and there, and they rattle in their frames with every new gust of wind._ _

__Still, apart from the building's creaks and groans, and the occasional wind-slammed cabinet door, it's peaceful, here. Nobody's looking over his shoulder when he sits down at the reception desk, and that's about as much as he can think to wish for._ _

__He spends an hour staring out at nothing before giving in, but he's careful about it._ _

__Sweeping the dried rubber bands, dead pens and broken pencils aside, he props up the flashlight on an outdated day calendar, training the beam into the cubby hole. He gets up and walks around to make sure the light can't be seen on the other side of the low cubicle, and only then does he settle in and take the papers out of his pocket._ _

__The drawing of Paul, he props up against the cubicle wall. It's a little more worn than the last time he'd taken it out, but he's got it memorized. Every line, every inch, every wave of want and worry that comes with looking at it._ _

__The map, though, is new, it's proof of life, it's _evidence_ that it wasn't Paul's ashes he'd hauled into a hole in the ground, that Jadis hadn't just drawn up a portrait of a dead man for shits and giggles. It's something Paul had made himself. _ _

__He's spent the past several hours resisting the urge to examine it, to confirm, one way or the other, whether it's anything at all. Now that he's got the time, he's slow and careful, easing it open from the ball he'd screwed it into, carefully flattening it against the desk before holding it up in the light._ _

__There's a circled question mark in the lower right corner, and above it, the landing site. There's a line leading up to Macon- probably the highway- and another line heading up towards the northwest. It probably leads to Atlanta, though the paper's been torn before it arrives. To the east of the route is a shaded area, cross-hatches giving way to scribbles, like maybe he hadn't had a lot of time to work on it, or he'd just gotten bored._ _

__There are marks, here and there, where maybe he'd idly let the pen rest, or where the ink had been smudged. One of these marks is soaked through at the torn edge, as if maybe it was an alternate route; Daryl can look as closely as he wants, though, and he's not going to be able to tell._ _

__He's pretty sure, though, that they're both already off this part of the map, though._ _

__Hopefully the rest of it's more useful, having already gotten Paul somewhere safe, wherever that is and whatever that means. Someplace warm and dry enough to rest for a minute, clear of any circling wolves, and with a view large enough to see anyone coming._ _

__He could be on the other end of this strip mall, he could be-_ _

__"Shift's over, man."_ _

__Daryl doesn't jump, but he kicks back from the desk a bit too quickly, hitting the base of the flashlight and sending it's beam in a wide arc as it tumbles to the floor._ _

__He's shutting it off the moment his fingers grasp it, but Billy's already reaching over, snagging the map from the desk. "Find something interesting?"_ _

__The chair rolls back into the wall when he stands up to reach for it, but Billy's on the other side of the cubicle, stepping out of reach, training his own flashlight on it as he holds it up to the window, like he's waiting for a convenient flash of lightning to illuminate it further. None comes, but Daryl can't make out his face, just his tone._ _

__"The fuck is this?"_ _

__"Nothing."_ _

__"It's a map." Billy's head swivels to look at him, face lost in the darkness._ _

__Daryl shakes his head, but he's watching that damned scrap of paper so hard that it don't matter, what his face does or doesn't say. Reaching out, he's more careful with his words. "Give it here."_ _

__Billy huffs through his nose, and twitches it out to him, disappointed. "Thought you had some porn up here or something,"_ _

__Daryl's just about got it in his fingers when it's suddenly pulled back, out of reach._ _

__"Only, hold up. If this ain't nothin', what're you doin' studying it so damned hard?"_ _

__"Just found it here," Daryl says, his brain catching up with him as he walks around the desk, keeping his posture relaxed. "Figured I'd take a look."_ _

__"Bullshit. I've spent hours sittin' right there, these past few months. This is new."_ _

__Up close, he can smell alcohol on his breath. Daryl doesn't know where he'd found any, but that ain't the problem right now._ _

__The problem is that Billy's stepping back again. "And I'm guessing that if it's new, and if you ain't told the rest of us about it, you-"_ _

__There's another creak on the stairs- he knows what that sound means, now- and then Dan's comin' up behind him. "What the fuck?"_ _

__"Daryl's keepin' secrets," Billy says, handing it and the flashlight over before heading to the windows, lookin' out._ _

__"I found it here."_ _

__"Huh," Dan says, glancing at Billy, who's clearly either settling in against the window frame for a long look, or is on the verge of passing out. Dan takes another glance at it, then hands it back. "Whatever, man. Anyway, shift's over. There's whiskey if you need help passing out._ _

__Daryl nods, taking it, then reaching over the cubicle, to fish out the drawing of Paul._ _

___It's all good_ , he makes the mistake of thinking as they head downstairs to the staff corridor, turning the flashlight back on to light their way. _ _

__"Hold up," Dan says, almost to himself, like he's just been putting the pieces together. "Why the fuck's this place got a map of that landing site on it?"_ _

__Stalling for time, Daryl merely grunts, which prompts Dan to ask the question again, this time only louder, right as they're entering the storeroom._ _

__"I _said_ , if you just found it, why the fuck does that map got your shit drawn on it?"_ _

__It's followed immediately by a shove, so Daryl shoves back._ _

__Dan ain't drunk, but he ain't fast, neither, so he stumbles into the shelves; on the other side of the wall, Daryl can hear the others approaching. Shit's about to get worse._ _

__Len bursts through the door first, but he's distracted by Dan, who's dragging what looks to be a rifle off the top shelf. Daryl has a split second to lunge forward, knocking Dan back into the wall, sending it clattering to his feet, but Len's already moving, knocking the flashlight out of his hands as he shoves him sideways against the wall, knife to his throat._ _

__Taking a breath and bracing himself, Daryl slams his forehead forward, headbutting him between the eyes and sending him reeling enough to push him clear._ _

__The rifle probably ain't loaded, but it's better in his hands than theirs, so he crouches down, feels out for it. Comes up with the stock, first- it feels all wrong- and then something awkward is poking him him in the arm as Dan makes a grab for it._ _

__Another flashlight, coming through the door just enough to make out that it's a crossbow he's holding, not a rifle. It ain't even set up to shoot, and it's too awkward to use as a-_ _

__" _Gentlemen_ ," Joe's voice booms loudly in the small room; there are more footsteps in the hallway; Billy's probably. "Would someone _kindly_ explain just what the hell is going on?"_ _

__"Daryl's up to something," Len says, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shakes his head to clear it._ _

__Dan, of course, is quick to jump in, wheezing, "He's got a _map_."_ _

__"So fucking what?"_ _

__"He was up there, lyin' about where he found it."_ _

__"Bullshit," Daryl says, tryin' to keep an eye on everyone all at once. They're edging closer, hemming him in._ _

__"It's got the landing site on it," Dan says. "Someone drew it out."_ _

__Joe's flashlight beam travels the room, and Daryl's pretty sure he can hear him sigh when it lands and holds, steadily, on him. "I'm thinking you'd better let me see it. Billy, go grab the lantern, would you?"_ _

__There are only of them, now, but they're better armed than he is- stupid fucking _crossbow_. _ _

__Snorting, Daryl shakes his head. But he ain't stupid, so he digs it out of his pocket, and passes it over. The room brightens considerably when Billy returns with the lantern, but all it reveals is a bunch of pissed off faces._ _

__And, apparently, enough of the map that Joe catches on._ _

__"This is what you found earlier in the yard, ain't it?"_ _

__Daryl shrugs, and Joe makes an unimpressed noise. He's got a gun in his hand, but he ain't raised it. Yet._ _

__"And you figured it was worth taking, but not worth tellin' us about."_ _

__"He had it out with that picture of his, from the other night," Billy adds, quietly; at this, Joe's searching gaze lands squarely back on Daryl._ _

__"This about your friend Paul?"_ _

__Fuck it. This already ain't goin' his way; might as well salvage what he can._ _

__"Dunno. Could be."_ _

__Dan snorts. " _Could be_ that his friend's hunting with the _wolves_ , now."_ _

__"No, he ain't." Daryl can't move under the weight of Joe's regard; the protest comes out weaker than he needs it to._ _

__Joe lets out a long whistle, considering, then shakes his head. "Yeah, well. Could be that's a bit of a leap. Spent some time with the squints myself, once upon a time. The colony don't raise them for shit like we saw today." Suddenly, he's smirking bitterly at the wall. "Even if they did, this don't prove anything." Turning back, he asks, "Daryl, you've got one shot at answering right, so don't fuck it up. You _did_ find this out there this afternoon?"_ _

__"Yeah."_ _

__"Well. Ain't saying we don't have some problems, here, but we got rules, too This map ain't on our list. Finders, keepers, and all that bullshit." He holds the map fragment out, though he holds tight when Daryl reaches out for it. "All right. Everyone, as you were. Daryl and I need to have ourselves a little chat."_ _

__\---_ _

___Wednesday, 10/15/2149, 21:24_ _ _

__Joe has him lead the way back out into the corridor, saying nothing about the white-knuckled grip he's got on the crossbow, though the flashlight might as well be a spotlight. Seein' as how Joe's got his handgun loaded and all ready to go, though, he don't really need to._ _

__"Left in here," Joe instructs, once they've reached the Harley shop's door._ _

__It's not locked, but it catches in the frame when Daryl shoulders it open, following his own shadow inside. The sound of the rain is louder in here; it's not until his eyes have adjusted that he realizes that the windows out front have all been shattered. They don't go far, just into the open space between the floor model bikes and the helmets._ _

__"You a hunter? Looks like you know how to handle that thing." He's being deliberate about it. _Setting the tone_ , or whatever Sasha and Paul used to call it. _ _

__It has the intended effect, though; Daryl finds himself relaxing his grip. "Used to be. Ain't much need for it, colonyside."_ _

__"Yeah, well. What's needed of people and what they're capable of ain't always the same thing."_ _

__Daryl doesn't know what to say to that. Instead, he just watches Joe wander towards the bikes._ _

__"All I really want to know is who it is that you're thinking the worst of, here."_ _

__Daryl doesn't answer for what feels like a long time. He don't know how to. "What do you mean?"_ _

__"Well, you found this map," Joe shrugs, twitching the paper, now even more torn, between his thumb and forefinger. "And just so we're clear, you think it's your friend's, right?"_ _

__He considers lying. Can't think of any other reason he could possibly care this much about it, though, not with Joe looking at him like this. "Yeah, but-"_ _

__Joe cuts him off with a nod. " _Yeah_. And you hid it from us. While we're out here helping you try to find him. Which means you either thought we were going to attack _him_ , or that he had already attacked _us_."_ _

__"I didn't-"_ _

__"You did. So much that you blew _right_ past the first logical thought- that your friend had been taken by the wolves- and immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion, which I've just laid out." _ _

__The calmness making him cautious, Daryl takes a breath, hoping it's not too obvious. "Which one is that?"_ _

__Joe laughs through his nose. "That we can't trust each other."_ _

__He's right, but admitting it out loud... things are about to get worse. The fact that Joe's not pressing ain't because he's bein' mindful, or whatever, givin' him room... it's 'cause he knows he don't have to.  
So Daryl doesn't know what to say when Joe and swings a leg over to sit down on the Livewire 487. _ _

__"Your friend. Tell me about him."_ _

__"Uh. What..."_ _

__"See, here's the thing. Distrust begets distrust. I know about the Wolves, I know what they're capable of. But all I know about your friend is that he's a squint named Paul. I need to know if he'd willingly do something like this."_ _

__"No. He's good people. Sure as hell ain't a murderer." Daryl sighs. Joe seems calm enough about all of this, all things considered, that he risks a minor deflection. "Look. I don't know how you knowin' what kind of books he liked or his favorite way to cook ricemeal is gonna prove shit one way or the other. So who the fuck are the wolves?"_ _

__Joe smirks, like he knows he's deflecting, but is allowing it anyway. He twists and releases the throttle, and shrugs._ _

__"Raiders mostly, and they're scary, psycho creeps on top of it. Much as they like to mark their territory, they don't stay put in once place. I've only ever seen 'em from a distance, but even from 80 yards, the evil was just rollin' right off of them. Dunno if they eat their kills or just like playin' around in their insides, but at that point, what's the fuckin' difference, you know?"_ _

__Daryl nods, like he does._ _

__"Take survivors with them, sometimes. And to hear tell, _sometimes_ , those survivors join up. Stockholm Syndrome, or what have you."_ _

__"Shit."_ _

__"Yeah. So this is why I'm asking. You say your friend's not evil. But how much do you think he'd want to survive?"_ _

__"He'd go out fighting," Daryl says, certain of _this_ much, at least, and hating himself for it. "But he'd die, first."_ _

__"I'm sorry to hear that, then." Joe sighs, and it's so damn easy to see him standing up off of the bike and reaching for his gun that Daryl refuses to give him the satisfaction of looking. Instead, though, the handlebars just swivel back into place, and Joe takes a few steps, grabbing something off the nearby rack._ _

__"Look. For what it's worth, we haven't found his body yet, and I hope like hell we don't find one. So here's the deal. If we find him keepin' company with the Wolves, hostage or not, you'd best be loud and vocal and _singing_ whatever truth there is to sing. And you'd better be quick about it, too, 'cause I can't promise that anyone's not in the mood to just blow him away with the rest of them."_ _

__Daryl keeps his eyes to the floor, unwilling to risk his nerves showing. "Yeah. Will do."_ _

__Joe bites off a laugh, changing the subject. "Speaking of the colony, this was always your thing, yeah? Like Merle and that ram's head."_ _

__Daryl looks up to find Joe holding a vest out to him. It's leather, a little dusty, and molded to the shape of the hanger at the shoulders. It's got wings embroidered on the back, but it's the mention of Merle that's throwin' him. Right now, though, ain't the time to do anything other than play along, so he shrugs it on, one arm at a time, without setting down the crossbow._ _

__"Looks like we're finding all sorts of shit that suits you tonight," Joe nods his approval once it's on, but his grin's cold, when Daryl looks back at him. "Just make be careful about which ones you hang onto. Because if you lie to us again, I'm going to kill you."_ _


	22. Chapter 22

_Wednesday, 10/15/2149, 23:03_

The rain's been beating down steadily for the past several hours, but there are heavy blankets and thick walls between him and the storm, not to mention the still-lingering nervousness at what would happen should he decide to go wandering. 

Not that he's got the energy for it. 

His hair's still damp- as is the pillow- and the blinding headache that had set in on the trek here has settled into a dull throb, receding enough that he could actually rub two brain cells together if he weren't so damned exhausted. As it is, lying here and taking stock is about all he can manage. 

The storm had set in before they'd even cleared the edge of the woods, the rain numbing his skin and creeping down around his collar. Between the dark and the adrenaline, urging him to check over his shoulder every few steps, he hadn't been able to keep track of where they were going; he hadn't even realized how far from the woods they'd gotten until he'd been blinded by the sudden light of spotlights from above. Their source had turned out to be a three-story high wall; he remembers Jerry shouting at people on top of it, and a large gate opening wide. 

There'd been buildings inside- more than he'd expected- and lights in windows. Even with the late hour and cold rain, there'd been people hurrying across the yard. Jerry'd pointed out some of the buildings- the garage, the comms station, the washrooms trailer, though none of it had really sunken in. One of the boys, a few years younger than Carl, had fallen into step with them, a drone under his arm, but he can't remember what he'd been talking about, only how he'd stared.

He pushes himself up, sitting back against the pillows slowly, the movement stoking his headache. His thoughts are only a little clearer than they'd been before he'd blacked out, gratefully, in the bed they'd shown him to. And there's a window here, but all he can make out through the rain-battered glass are disparate sources of light that he's got no real frame of reference for. Another flash of lightning strikes as he stares, putting the sharp-tipped wall bordering the settlement in stark relief.

He's at the Kingdom.. It's hard to reconcile his impressions of this place with the idea Spencer'd put in his head. Sure, there's the walls, and a grand old house, but from what he can piece together, no indications that this place is a seat of any real kind of power, tiger and _Bloody Mary_ aside. 

She's terrifying, and she'd recognized him- at least his name- and which means she's spent some time on the Colony. And it ought to feel like a key turning, or something settling into place, but it doesn't.   
Instead, he's waking up in a strange place, no closer to a plan than he'd been the previous several times. 

And not for the first time, he's trying to decide what the outcome will be if he gets up, navigates his way across the room towards the heavy-looking closed door. As long as he stays where he is, he won't have to find out whether the door's been bolted from the outside. He won't need to know for certain that he's a prisoner, here. And honestly, he's too tired and the air outside of the bed is too cold for him to even want to try. 

So instead, he shuffles back down under the covers in a bed that's far too big for the likes of him alone. When he closes his eyes, he's back out in the forest, out of breath and running alone through a whirlwind, dodging bloody claws while gunfire shreds the earth all around him; he's too focused on that to even track Daryl, who's just up ahead, who's just out of reach, who's already buried in the sand underneath his feet. 

He nearly wakes up at the smell of burning plastic, but he can't think of a good reason to bother. 

\--- 

_Thursday, 10/16/2149, 08:00_

There's no telling what time it is when he wakes up, but Carol's sitting upright on the overstuffed chair in the corner, handgun on her lap, and she looks like she's been sitting there quite a while.

"Did you sleep well?"

He drags a hand over his face, hoping that the friction will wake him up enough for whatever this is going to be. "Yes. Thank you."

"Good," she smiles. It's genuine and kind, but it's not quite trusting, so he's not surprised when the next words out of her mouth are, "Here's how it's going to be. First off, you're safe, here. No harm will come to you, though the nature and extent of your welcome here will be dependent on how this conversation goes. Is that fair?"

He nods, straightening his shirt as best he can. He's not wearing his boots, and there's the tug of a still-not-quite familiar belt at his waist, which means he doesn't have to check too obviously. His knife is on the shelf next to Carol, where he dimly remembers dropping it before stumbling to the bed. 

It's sitting next to the bowl of stew he hadn't felt like eating last night, and while she's probably already noticed, she doesn't seem offended. Though he's not sure how he'd tell. 

"Okay, Paul- I'm Carol, by the way, the Bloody Mary's kind of a long story- how about we start by you telling me a little bit about yourself? Like how you came to be here?"

He sighs, not sure where to start, but she doesn't seem like someone who enjoys having her time wasted. "We came here on a ship. The situation on the colony is unstable, we came down here to petition NATOPS for aid. A few days after we landed, just south of Macon, the SA attacked. I got separated from my crew and the soldiers that had come to meet us, so I'm trying to find them. I was heading to Atlanta when I ran into those men. They were part of a larger group, I was going to-" he breaks off, not finding the words to describe them. 

"They were wolves. Bad news, all around."

"I found them... they were butchering someone, I think. Are they cannibals?"

"Usually they stick to raiding and murdering, but that wouldn't surprise me. I've never seen them this close up. Wouldn't have been the worst idea to capture one of them, if we'd had the chance." A grin threatens to break through as she shrugs. "Seems like Shiva had other plans."

"Shiva's the tiger?"

Carol nods. 

He opens his mouth to ask more, then closes it. "The one she killed, he was the one calling the shots."

"Huh. Well, hopefully the rest of the group will just implode in on itself. I guess we'll see what happens."

"Why hasn't NATOPS taken care of them?"

The laughter this elicits is sharp and bitter. "They're not going to bother. They're too busy trying to cement their footing in Atlanta."

Paul nods. "That's where my crew was heading."

"Right, your mission. Tell me about it."

"Well..." He doesn't know where to start. "Have you heard anything from the colony in the past year or so?"

"I haven't been keeping tabs, but I haven't heard anything about this apparent mission of yours, either." She straightens up. "Though news like that usually spreads."

He shouldn't be surprised, he supposes, but the suspicion stings all the same. Worse, though, is how intently she's watching him, like the answer's going to mean something that he doesn't know about, yet. 

"It wasn't exactly sanctioned," he admits, before he makes the mistake of deliberating too long. "The Council's in disarray, and Negan-" he breaks off at her blank look. "Are you familiar with the Saviors?"

She frowns, shaking her head, eyes narrowed. 

"They're an offshoot of AdSec. Negan's their leader, and they... kind of staged a bit of a coup."

"You're kidding." She sighs, sitting up, eyes casting about irritably in a way that he wants to ask her about. He doesn't get the chance. "So how did you get down here, then?"

"We stole the research vessel," he says, without fully understanding how that must sound.

"You _stole_ it?"

"The Council wasn't going to approve a trip, not officially. They had us refitting the RV for what we thought was going to be a trip to ask for help, but it turned out they were just looking to escape back to Earth. So a few people got together and figured we could do better."

"That was bold of you." She doesn't sound impressed. "How many were on your crew? Tell me about them."

He's been expecting the question for months. 

"We started with nine," he says, smirking at the surprise on her face. "Three Dockside pilots, four Techniki, two Admin. Two didn't survive the trip- our CO, Connor, and Spencer Monroe, who was the other Admin. His mother was Councilwoman Deanna Monroe, if you knew her."

She shrugs. "I think I remember seeing her around. We wouldn't have rubbed shoulders. Kind of like your father."

"Stepfather."

The face Carol makes suggests that it's of less importance to her than it is to him, but then she leans forward. "Who'd you have from the Techniki enclave?"

"Sasha was the one who'd had the idea in the first place. She was more or less in charge of anything that wasn't directly related to the ship's physical operation. Daryl and Dwight came on about the same time I did, and Carl- Rick Grimes' kid- was an unforeseen last minute addition."

Surprise derails whatever she'd been about to say. "Seriously? How'd you convince Rick-"

"We didn't have a choice. Fighting was breaking out, Saviors and Admin against everyone else. He got injured while we were getting ready to launch. Getting him on board was the only way to keep him safe." 

Carol sits back, her face going blank. Only Paul's starting to figure her out, and it's less _blankness_ than it is _caution_. Of course, he _did_ just sound like he's justifying a kidnapping. "Rick knows, it's all right."

"This war you say's going on," she says, a decided change of subject. "You said it was Negan who started it?"

"Yes, though he had some help. You know him?"

"Enough to be surprised that he could do such a thing, but not that he would." 

She studies him searchingly enough that he feels the need to straighten out his clothes, to get out of this bed, to figure out some way to put more situational weight behind words that he doesn't even have yet. But he doesn't know exactly what needs bolstering, here, and the silence is only stretching out. There's something new emerging in her eyes, though.

"The Daryl you had on board, his last name wouldn't happen to be Dixon, would it?"

This isn't the kind of conversation where the feelings of even hearing just his _name_ should be having any kind of effect, but he can't help the grin that breaks out. It's not just relief, it's recognition. It's someone _else_ confirming that Daryl's real enough to remember, and it's blindsiding. 

"Yeah! He's-" 

-he's smarter and funnier than he likes to let on, he's better than he thinks he is. He's good people, he's Paul's friend, his hopefully-still-more-than-that. He's something like sanity and _home_ , even if he doesn't have any better idea what that means than Paul does, and if it comes down to a choice, Daryl's the one Paul needs to find, survival of the colony be damned, because he's _missing_ , too- he's the only person Paul's ever been wary of and afraid _for_. 

He wants to tell her all of this, and he _can't_ , but he'd started and he has to finish because if he keeps _thinking_ about it, there won't be any room left in him for words at all. Feeling foolish and hoping like hell she doesn't hear the breath he needs to take just to get the paltry words out, he finally manages, "Daryl's my best friend." 

Her smile's a changing thing- a flash of worry, and then wide, overwhelmed relief. "He was mine, too, once upon a time, so welcome to the " Brushing her hands on her legs, she gets up. It's the surety of her stance that his attention locks onto. 

"Well. Any friend of Daryl's is a friend of mine. You mind hanging tight for a bit while I go talk to Ezekiel?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "I'll have Jerry get you the grand tour, but if you want to get cleaned up in the meantime, there's a bathroom at the end of the hall if you want to clean up. Just ignore the _staff only_ sign."

"Okay. Thanks."

"No problem," she smiles over her shoulder, letting herself out into the hallway. 

The moment the door's closed behind her, he's out of bed and on his feet. The moment he realizes it he's done it, the usual thoughts are back again- _don't get your hopes up_ and _it's a trap_ and _this can't be real_. 

For the first time in a long time, though, he thinks he might be wrong.


	23. Chapter 23

_Thursday, 10/16/2149, 09:28_

The bowstring clicks into place inside the trigger box, and he double checks the new set of markings, which _should_ be more accurate than his first attempt had been. Sliding the bolt into place, he checks his grip, scans the field, and takes aim at the practice target he'd cobbled together from foam he'd scrounged at the bike shop. 

His muscle memory isn't quite coming through yet, but _this_ time, he actually manages to hit the foam practice target he'd grabbed with the rest of the gear. Dan's impressed whistle and the slow clapping, as he watches Daryl reload, is patronizing and irritating. Like he's pretending that everything is fine, that they hadn't just lost two of their own.

"That ain't the quickest thing I've ever seen," Dan gushes, "but damn."

"Yeah." Daryl'll give him that, waving him back to give him room so he can take aim. "But it's quiet, and you can't reuse bullets."

This time, he's only an inch or two off the center. "Fair enough." 

Like these fucks are any kind of goddamned experts. There's six different kids of guns in the back, all requirin' different ammunition, and the grenades and tear gas canisters are two years past their expiration date. 

"Might as well use them up," Dan'd told them when they'd been loading the truck, like he was talkin' about bread that was about to go stale, or some shit. 

For a few minutes, though, he lets himself just _focus_. He doesn't have to think about whatever shit-show of a plan they're pretending to have, or the location and exact nature of Paul's whereabouts, or Joe's warning, or any of the other bad possible futures that are opening up in front of him. For a few minutes, it's just him and his breathing, the bow and his target. 

Too few shots and too many readjustments later, his aim inching towards true, he walks across to retrieve his bolts, from the target, only realizing that he's drawn an audience when he turns back. Joe, Len and Billy are done talkin' with the woman- Mary, or Maria, or something like that- and everyone else is heading back for the truck. 

He grabs the target, too, and hurries to shove it in the back with the weapons stockpile in the back of the truck. The bolts catch on the thin, grainy plastic garbage bag Len'd stashed the gas masks in, and he rushes to get them bundled up again.

"Sorry," he apologizes, climbing into truck, hands sore in a way that used to be familiar as he settles into his seat. Thankfully, nobody seems to take notice of him, which is as much as he can hope for. Still, getting distracted probably hadn't been the best move. He knows he's on thin ice. He needs to be ingratiating himself to Joe and the rest of the crew, not holding them up. 

Through the window, the woman looks to be the oldest person he thinks he's seen, since coming back. Her black hair's almost given way completely to white, and she's dangerously thin, already opening one of the MRE's Joe'd paid for her time with as she shoves the others in her pack. "Did she say anything?"

"No. Talked for a while... apparently Pete's crew is back on their old turf, guess the whole Jackson went tits up. Which sucks for them, but it's good news for us, long as the sunlight holds..." Joe checks the rearview. "Just a heads up, everyone, I gave her directions back to camp, but I doubt she'll make it that far too fast on foot. If we see her on the road coming back, we're picking her up."

"What for?"

"She's arthritic and trying to walk halfway across the goddamned state just to get to the _hospital_." Joe laughs irritably through his nose, because apparently, Daryl shouldn't have needed to ask. 

\--- 

_Thursday, 10/16/2149, 11:31_

Daryl's tryin' not to listen to Len and Dan riskin' their lives by theorizing about Tony And Harley while Billy's sittin' up front. 

They've been at it for ten goddamned minutes. So what if they were lookin for some disgraced CDC doctor, or hustling a side run while? It ain't gonna change _dead_ , but it is lookin' increasingly like Daryl ain't the only one skatin' on thin ice right now. At the moment, at least, shutting the fuck up instead of chimin' in on the bullshit earns him a _can you believe these assholes_ glance from Billy; at this point, it's practically currency. 

Another minute, and Billy's reached his limit, growling at the two of them. "You best be keepin' my cousin's name out of your goddamned mouths unless you want to end up like him." 

Joe glances back in the rearview. Showin' that he's heard, and that he ain't got no plans to intercede. The truck's dead silent for for a solid ten minutes. 

\--- 

The bend in the road ain't nothin' special, but Joe pulls over anyway, and everyone else seems to know what to do, so Daryl follows them, waiting for instructions as he gets out of the truck. 

"It's gonna be a while," Joe says, smirking. "Stretch your legs, soak up the rays while you can, and smoke 'em if you got 'em. Daryl, if you're gonna keep up with that Robin Hood shit, just don't shoot into the trees. People might take offense."

The sky's really something, right now. With the sunlight bouncing off leaves gone orange and gold, when the roadside gravel looks so much like Colony dirt that looking back up at the sky is almost jarring. Up to the north, just at the horizon, the rain's still comin' down like a hard gray wall. 

He sets up shop again, this time, the target placement is riskier, since overshooting means sending arrows off the overpass instead of into an embankment, but he's been hitting the target every time. He sets up and resumes practice, going slower this time on account of his chapped hands. In between shots and reloads, he watches Joe pace and maneuver until he's managed to catch the sunlight with his compass mirror. It takes a while to figure out where he's signaling to, until he sees a glinting through a wide break in the trees. 

It's too far away to really see without binoculars, but there's a pattern emerging. Looks like Morse code, flashing too fast to track. 

"All right," Joe eventually turns back to the group, sighing in relief as he looks at the cloud cover movin' back in. "Everyone hang tight, they know we're here."

It's only another minute before the drone comes into view, drifting through the valley and over the trees. It makes one sweep, drifting into a hovering position over the trees on the side of the road. 

Daryl wonders, idly, if he could hit it from here. 

The sound of motorcycles- no, motor _bikes_ \- buzz closer on the other side of the trees, then veer left, eventually emerging from a dirt trail up the road, then swinging back towards them. Three riders, dressed in a mishmash of NATOPS gear and worn denim. Two of them are wearing garishly bright cowboy boots in turquoise and orange; the other is wearing a turban.

They cut their engines, but only one of them- the dark-haired man with the hunter-orange shit kickers- gets off his bike. "Was wonderin' if y'all were still runnin' out this way."

"Hey Pete," Joe says as they shake hands, "Good to see you. When are you gonna get yourselves a proper radio?"

"Who's to say that we don't? This is just getting' a head start on the next EMP," Pete says. "Keep your mirror work up, you're gonna need it one of these days. Anyhow, what brings you out this way?"

Daryl tunes out as Joe and Pete wander off down the road a bit, not so far as to be out of earshot, but far enough to know that this ain't gonna be a group conversation. Daryl packs up his crossbow and target, and listens to Joe bring Pete up to speed. 

"Seen any of those Wolves fucks around these parts?"

"Shit," Pete sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Last week and again two days ago, yeah. Heading north up the road here, but they didn't see us and we weren't inclined to make ourselves known. Why?"

"Tony and Harley were out on a run, fell out of contact. Found Tony dying, Harley already there, Wolves tags all over the goddamned place. Need to have ourselves some kind of conversation with the fuckers."

"Shit. Sorry, man, that's rough." Pete nods a vague apology back towards the 'claimers, then looks back at Joe. "Any consolation, there seemed to be fewer of them heading north than there'd been heading south."

"Seen anything else?" 

"NATOPS headin' north, and a shit-ton of civilian traffic headin' south, though that was about two weeks back, I guess. Still runnin' into lost idiots wanderin' through the trees, lookin' for shortcuts. Most of the drones pulled off the road, but NATOPS still has a few monitoring Round Oak lately, so maybe they're finally gonna do somethin' about patching up that damned bridge."

"That'd be good."

"More'n you know. Finally gave way completely last week. Only thing for it now is to roll the dice on Z83."

"Shit," Joe groans. 

Daryl nudges Len. "What's he talkin' about?"

"The Zoo. There was this animal sanctuary, closed up 'round the time of the carpetbombing back in '40. Dunno how it went down, but next thing you know the transport trailers are clogging up a bridge up on Highway 83, doors open. Ten years later, shit's gone wild, you gotta be on the lookout for bears and lions and shit. They're doin' surprisingly' well for themselves."

"Place draws crazies like nothin' you've ever seen," Dan adds, "End timers thinking that fuckin' elephants on the highway _meant_ something, old hippies, that kind of thing. Harmless, but weird. Used to have a stash house up there- might still do- but we haven't been up that way in a while."

"Probably picked apart, Atlanta bein' what it is these days."

Dan grunts noncommittally, his upper lip curling, and they all go back to watching.

"...nah, far as I can tell," Pete's tellin' Joe when Daryl tunes back in, just a few seconds too late. "It was just the regular crew- minus the leader. Why?"

"Got a missing persons situation goin' on. Bunch of folks from the Colony landed south of Macon, one of 'em's in the wind."

"Colony as in _Colony One_?" Pete looks at Joe with sudden interest, then skepticism. "But there ain't no landing site there."

"From what I can tell, this one wasn't like usual."

"You know who was on board?"

At this, Joe shrugs, looking over at Daryl and waving him over, looking only slightly irritated by the distraction. "This is Daryl. He was one of 'em."

It's not hard to guess where this is going. "You got people up on the Colony?"

"Yeah, my brother. Mitch Dolgen. Pilots for NATOPS."

 _Fuck_. 

The memory comes rushing at him. Mitch, frozen like he was swimming on the edge of the blast radius. The charred up ground, the seared off line splitting what was left of him to was wasn't. The way his body'd been too light when they'd moved him onto the tarp. 

"Yeah," Daryl says, weighing out his words carefully. "He's the one that got us all here." 

It ain't right, not telling him, though it's tempting. Before Pete can get his hopes up any further, he takes a breath. This ain't conversation, this is penance, 'cause it ain't right, feelin' this bad about it now when he hadn't even thought about Mitch in days. "I'm sorry, man. SA attacked right after we landed. He didn't make it out."

Pete's eyes go hard; Joe's lookin' like he's wishing Daryl'd kept his mouth shut. And behind them, the the two on the dirt bikes exchange concerned glances that Pete doesn't even notice, focused as he is on keeping any sort of expression at all off of his face. 

"Look, I'm sorry, I really am." Fuck, he sucks at this shit. "Weren't for Mitch, we never would've made it. He was good people." Maybe he could tell him that it was quick, at least. But it wouldn't magically make anything better, and it might just make things worse. _Sorry your brother got caught up in the launch blast of the ship he'd captained. Sorry there wasn't more of him to bury_. But it's something, at least. 

"I can draw you a map." The offer's oafish and doesn't make any sense, if Pete's even listening. "Uh. To where we buried him..."

Pete nods, eyes locked onto the horizon as he lets out a breath, nodding like he hadn't heard Daryl at all. 

"Thanks for letting me know, I was... I appreciate it, all right?" he monotones, before facing Joe once again. "Anyway, yeah. I'd check the the Zoo. All the people looking to camp on the road lately, it's easy pickings. Sorry I don't have more for you than that, I-" Pete cuts himself off, clearly only seconds away from freaking out. He turns on his heel, heading towards his bike like he wants to be clear of them before it all sets in. 

The man in the turban rides after him; the one with the turquoise boots hangs back until they've disappeared into the trees, and then steps his bike up close. 

He's younger than Daryl would've expected- about Carl's age- and with a nervous glance at Joe, he passes Daryl a scrap of paper and an ancient chewed up pencil. 

"Uh. The coordinates?" He says, voice quiet and teenage-awkward. "To where he's buried? In case he decides..."

"Yeah," Daryl nods. He don't know the coordinates, but he remembers the highway signs plain enough. That'll be enough to get him there, so he writes it down, all the while knowing it ain't gonna be _enough_. 

Nobody'd thought to leave any kind of marker. It's just a blighted fucking pit dug up on a goddamned highway median.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY! Finally posting the last update before they're reunited!* Sorry for all the exposition in the meantime. 
> 
>  
> 
> *I almost tagged this with a spoiler alert, but c'mon, this is fanfic, of COURSE it's going to happen.

_Thursday, 10/16/2149, 12:18_

"So yeah, Ezekiel didn't want us givin' up on the inner gardens just 'cause of the eastern farms, so it's mostly herbs and veggies." Jerry waves at the teenagers who've all stopped what they're doing to stare back at them. "Uh... I don't really know what else there is to say about them."

Paul nods. He's already asked how the gate worked, the respective ages of the buildings, and how they handle water purification and plumbing. Jerry'd already explained that Barrington House is just a house, not a castle. It might as well be, though. It's huge, ornate, old and almost as impressive as the stables. Paul had known horses were large, but not _that_ large. Looking at the garden, he's got some ideas on how they might change up their irrigation, but they'll keep for now. 

"Wait for it..." Jerry's muttering, as they start stepping away, and Paul manages not to laugh when the teenagers start chattering again. "Shit, man," Jerry shakes his head. "You'd think people'd never seen a spaceman before." The storm's given way to the occasional drizzle; it should be enough that people who don't have work to do wouldn't ordinarily be loitering, but word's gotten out. 

Jerry, Paul's pretty sure, is the one who'd spread it, but he doesn't mind. He doesn't know how long he's going to be here, but the fewer people he has to explain it to, the better. 

"So what's this?" Paul asks, following him around the garage. There's a door in the tall wooden wall, barred with metal. Jerry undoes the latch and steps through. "Figure you should go say hi to your savior."

He can't help frowning. "Savior?"

"Yeah," Jerry frowns, picking up on his concern as he closes the door behind him. "Shiva." 

They've stepped out into a caged work area; on the other side of the bars, there's nothing but tall grass leading back into the trees. The hutch at the end, when Jerry opens it up, reveals a frighteningly dirty computer screen that he dusts off with his sleeve. Consulting it for a moment, he points off to his left. "She's pretty far out, but... should be on this side of the hill. You see her?"

"Ah... no." A little disappointed, Paul can't make out anything besides grass.

"All right, we're in luck, hold up." Tapping at the screen, a whirring noise starts up on the roof above them; a moment later a drone's taking off, swooping towards the north. "She might come, she might not. Only one who gets a guarantee is King Ezekiel, but we'll see..." 

The drone's hovering about forty yards away; Paul can just make out the series of beeps it lets out, and suddenly, the grass starts to move. 

And then there's the tiger, prowling through the grass towards them. She's easily the size of one of the horses- Paul wonders if she's ever tried eating one of them, but he's not going to ask. Even so, it's hard to keep track of her progress without the aid of the drone locking onto her overhead. 

Jerry, Paul's observed, is one of those people people tend to flock to. And horses, and, apparently, tigers. As soon as she's come close enough to see him, her posture changes, her pace quickens just a bit, and a few seconds later, she's shouldering against the bars, making a weird rumbling noise as her _huge_ head rubs forcefully against the hand Jerry's stuck through the bars. When he starts scratching the spots on the back of her head, she begins to make a contented rumbling noise. 

"Purring?"

Jerry snorts at him. "Chuffing? Yeah, same thing. You wanna pet her? She's pretty chill."

"Um..."

"Seriously. Long as you stay chill." Jerry nods up at the top of the bars; someone's painted a sign reading _don't start none, won't be none_. 

"She's tame?"

"More like, we've all reached an accord. But yeah, if you're gonna be around here, it's best that you get acquainted. And, ah. Might not want to go out there solo."

Carefully, he eases his hand out. Not as far as Jerry's done, but when taking liberties with an animal that can rip people's throats out, Paul figures caution is the way to go. Her shoulder brushes against his fingertips- fur smooth and warm, and slowly she turns to sniff at his hand disinterestedly. 

"You ever go out there?"

"Sometimes, with Ezekiel. He's pretty hell bent on giving her her space." He's not wrong. The entire colony could fit inside what he can see of the enclosure.

Shiva slinks closer for another pass, her massive bulk sliding against the back of his hand; he can feel the muscles shifting under her fur, but he hasn't quite identified how he feels about it yet. _Awed_ seems too simple a word, but it's all he's got. 

She's less impressed by him, pacing back and forth for another few minutes, eventually letting out a rumbling huff and slinking off into the grass. 

\--- 

Back in the yard, Carol introduces him to Henry, and Jerry introduces him to Nabila, and eventually, their procession winds their way back to the main house. Inside, Jerry leads them past the stairs and through a large set of doors.

It's a library, or maybe a gallery. There are hundreds of books here- some old, some new-stuffed onto the bookshelves that line the room. They're interspersed, here and there, with old computer drives and tablets and other odds and ends. Above the shelves there are paintings, most of them old, colors muted, though someone had scrounged up some more modern works to break the monotony. 

On the far end of the room, next to what he's pretty sure is a fireplace, though no fire is lit, and a chair so ornate that it's definitely a throne. 

"Your Highness," Jerry calls out, looking around the room. "We've brought our visitor."

"Excellent!"

Paul follows the sound to find a large man with graying dreadlocks emerging from behind a bookcase that isn't tall enough to have properly hidden him. The thought occurs to Paul that he must have been crouching there, waiting. 

The fact that he's trying to straighten out a chaotic sheaf of papers- a few flutter behind him-set him at ease almost as much as his laughing eyes do. 

"Forgive the mess," he says, dropping the pile onto a nearby end table; most of them are maps. "I was busy, ah... making quite a mess of things." Reaching out a hand for Paul to shake, he introduces himself. "I'm Ezekiel, _King_ if you're feeling theatrical."

"Paul Rovia."

"Yes," Ezekiel nods. "Carol says she knows you from the Colony." Just over his shoulder, Carol is rolling her eyes, glancing down at the floor of the aisle, where more papers are scattered. "It sounds like you've had quite the harrowing journey. Come in- everyone- have a seat, there's much to discuss and frankly, this is the first new thing I've had on the radar in weeks."

Jerry waves Paul to an expensive looking couch, though he himself seems intent on standing guard in the middle of the room; Carol, at least, joins him on the other end of the couch. Henry, the kid, has already disappeared.

"So," Ezekiel says. "From what I understand, you and your crew arrived on Earth just over two weeks ago, where you were met by a NATOPS contingent. There was an attack, and you were separated."

"Yes."

"And you're trying to find them so that you can all go appeal to NATOPS in hops of securing ongoing aid for Colony One."

"That's correct. We were originally intending on heading to Washington DC, but then it was determined by our escort that Atlanta was the preferable destination."

"Well _that's_ as may be. Have you heard anything about the situation in Atlanta?"

"Just that NATOPS is apparently strengthening their base there... and that it's a bad thing."

Ezekiel dips his head and shrugs. "Not bad, just complicated. Stability is beneficial, but getting there is oftentimes tricky. There are winners and there are losers."

"I met some people down in Macon," Paul offers, familiar enough with friendly politicking that he senses it's his turn to offer some a gesture of information couched as agreement. "They were trying to escape."

"They're not the first. NATOPS is large and powerful and they have numbers on their side and under their charge. Those who disagree with their way of doing things, their way of being, are disruptive."

"That's what has me worried. A ship falling out of the sky begging for help for another planet doesn't seem like it would be business as usual."

"I don't quite know what usual looks like these days, do you?"

He thinks about Owen and his mad people. "Down here, it's all unusual."

"I suppose it would be. Tell me. Have you been able to make contact with any of your people?"

"I've tried. My contact in Macon, he had a drone and a radio, did some looking around and checking with the relay stations, but there was no luck."

Ezekiel frowns. "You don't have a radio yourself?"

"Ah, no. When we landed, that was all handled by the soldiers. I don't even know which frequencies are being monitored."

"That is unfortunate." Leaning back in his throne, Ezekiel fixes him with a steady look. "What, then, was your plan for approaching Atlanta?"

Paul shrugs, resisting the urge to fidget. "I kind of thought I'd just walk up to Atlanta and start asking around..."

"That seems rather cavalier."

"No more so than stealing a ship and taking off across the galaxy," Carol supplies with a shrug. 

"True, but-" Ezekiel breaks off, then redoubles his focus on Paul. "You said you had a contact in Macon?"

"Yeah," Paul nods. "They were moving on, though. Filled me in a bit on what was going on." Carol and Jerry are both suddenly turning towards each other, their eyes trained on him.

"I thought they'd all cleared out," Carol tells Ezekiel. "Who was your contact?"

Ezekiel nods for him to answer, so he does. "A guy named Morgan. And another one named Edwin. I think he was a doctor."

"Edwin Jenner?"

"That's it, yeah."

"Jesus Christ," Carol mutters, shaking her head like she's torn between irritation and amusement. 

"What?"

"Small world," Jerry offers, explaining nothing. 

Ezekiel frowns, lost in thought. "It would seem so."

"First Daryl," Carol looks at Paul. "Now this."

 _Ah_."You know them?"

"I believe we'd be more interested in how you came to meet them."

"I ran into Morgan in Macon. He was waiting for someone and he found me instead. He let me stay with him for a bit while I got my bearings, and then Dr. Jenner showed up, and the two of them had to move on." This, he's pretty sure, might be too much information for this point in their acquaintance. "Why?"

"Do you know where they went?"

"I don't, no." He doesn't mention Morgan's invitation, or his suspicions. "NATOPS is after them, aren't they?"

"As far as you know, did they escape?"

"They got a good head start, that's all I know for sure."

"Good."

"Can you tell me... I get the impression that it was Jenner who was in trouble. Can you tell me why that might've been?"

"Believe me, I'd like to know myself. There's nothing like finding out that an old friend has a bounty on his head. Rumor has it that he knows something that will shake things up for a lot of people, and NATOPS can't have that."

"He abandoned his post at the Center for Disease Control, and he took a lot of critical information with him," Carol supplies. "So it stands to reason that whatever he has, it's something NATOPS wants."

"I don't doubt that." It's funny, how certain he is that were it not for the fact that she said she knew Daryl, he wouldn't saying anything that he's planning to. "At least, it wouldn't surprise me. Part of the situation on the Colony, and this may or may not have any bearing on what's going on down here," he shrugs, "we have. Well. We _had_ evidence that he was researching medical uses for an incredibly unstable mineral back on the colony."

"Like, a secret project or something?" Jerry asks.

"Secret from us. Not necessarily secret from our leaders, or from Earth. But it put people at risk- people died. I figure, if what he was working on was supposed to be a cure, then... whatever he's trying to cure's got to be pretty serious."

"What do you know about the disease?"

"Nothing, honestly. Just enough to try using it as a bargaining chip if I ever get to Atlanta, but if I'm being honest, the thought of it has me wary." Especially now. They'd had the drives when they'd landed- they'd had _evidence_. It's all still on the RV, as far as he knows, but of that, he can't even be sure. Whatever his approach was going to be, arriving in Atlanta, without the RV, they were _nowhere_. 

"What's the matter?"

This, right here, is the safest and warmest he's been in weeks, but under Carol's gaze, he wants nothing more than to disappear and hide out. He wants to run. 

That's just cowardice, though. 

"I don't. I mean. Nothing." He straightens up in his seat and forces a wry grin. "Just the realization that all the evidence was on our ship, which was hijacked after we landed." If not completely vaporized. 

_No_. He'd seen the burn marks and the lack of that particular type of wreckage. It's just the low-grade panic circling back again, shoving the same old uncertainties at him. Pulling himself together, he glances towards the pile of maps, and then back to Ezekiel, his face still probably betraying far more than he wants it to.

"So. Yes. That's the situation I'm in right now." Rubbing a hand over his face, he almost misses the glance Ezekiel and Carol exchange. 

With a nod, Ezekiel smiles reassuringly. "All right. Please know that we are willing to assist, though there are some practicalities that must first be considered before I decide what form that may take. Let us break for now, and reconvene this evening." Unfolding himself from the throne, he rises to his full height. "Is there anything else you could use in the meantime?"

"If it's not asking too much, a pen and paper would be helpful. I'm a little concerned that I'm starting to forget details, and I could use some time to get my thoughts together so as not to cause undue confusion."

"That is aid most easily rendered," Ezekiel nods, then tilts his head to call out. "Henry?"

A blond head that Paul hadn't even been aware of pops up from behind the bookshelves at the far side of the room. "Yes?"

"Please see that our Mr. Rovia eats his fill, in the mess or in his room, whichever he prefers, and that he has all that he needs to prepare for this evening. If he has any questions, you are to talk as freely to him as you would anyone, is that understood?"

"Yes, your highness."

Ezekiel buries a grin. "Excellent. And as soon as your duties have been thusly discharged, you may return to finish up your history assignment."

"Yes, your highness," Henry sighs, his enthusiasm waning to the point of sarcasm.

"You can do it now while it's raining, or you can do it when it clears," Carol teases, standing up; Paul follows suit, and follows her to the door. "I mean, it might be easier for you to concentrate if the rest of us are out scouting, you'll have the whole library to-"

" _Jeez_." Henry brandishes the two books he's carrying as he leads Paul out into the hall. "I'm _on_ it, Mom, all right?"

\--- 

_Thursday, 10/16/2149, 15:17_

Finally, there's a break in the rain, leaving behind wide muddy puddles that the people outside mostly try to circumvent. There are kids and toddlers, though, who have different ideas. Their laughter is almost as distracting as the warning shouts of caregivers telling them to _stop that_ and _get back here_. 

He knows that they aren't shouts of danger, but the sheer amount of it sets him on edge all the same, and whenever it draws his attention to the window, he's _then_ met with the recurring realization that there are _so many_ children here, with nothing but a wall, which doesn't even protect them from above, holding the rest of the planet at bay. 

Sure, they've got a tiger prowling around outside, but one strafing run, one jet-dropped bomb, is all it would take to destroy this place utterly. They all must know this, and yet it's the rain, which they all must be long-accustomed to, that they choose to shout about. 

But, _right_ , the colony. Glaring through the pinpricks of pain behind his eyes, and flexing his hands to ease the cramping, he turns his attention back to the page.

He's been trying to get it all down, exactly as it happened. Now that he's had some time, and some food, and some relative peace and quiet, he's finding that it's all coming to him easily enough, though figuring out which tangent comes first is a knot he's yet to untangle. 

The cessation of NATOPS aid and the shortages. The Council, Negan and the Saviors. Fear in the enclaves, and rioting on the strip. Refitting the RV, and then joining up to steal it. The communications breakdowns, the Rubidium and what it did, and discovering on the Ambition what NATOPS had been meaning to do with it. Connor's death and Spencer's murder and Laura. 

There's no official use for writing about the crew beyond that, though it doesn't stop him. He writes about each of them in turn. Names and enough description to identify each one of them, should someone else encounter them first. 

Because he'd lied. Getting all this on paper hadn't only been about gathering his thoughts, or documenting the evidence that had disappeared with the ship. He needs to make a record of _all_ of this, because survival had never been a given even at the outset, and the near-misses only seem to be growing narrower each day. 

If he's the last of them, someone else needs to be able to explain it all. 

And whoever that may be probably doesn't need to know every last detail about reading with Carl, going crosseyed over duty rosters with Sasha or sparring with Mitch. They won't have any use to know about how drowsy and _aware_ he'd felt, sitting up late with Daryl, staring hard into the jump lane because anything else would've been awkward. But the details keep trying to creep in, here and there, despite himself. 

He doesn't cross any of it out. 

If this winds up being the only record on Earth of everything that's happened, it won't hurt to let people know that there'd been people- on board, and on the colony- worth giving a damn about. 

It's everything that happened on Earth that's harder to write. The landing and the initial meeting with the NATOPS convoy are easy enough, but the attack and the aftermath is still muddled. He remembers every instant, but doesn't understand any of them.

He's been here weeks, and he's still not sure who the SA _is_ , or what they stand for- only what they're capable of. Past that, though, he's going in circles. He doesn't know what the SA wants, and it's the same with NATOPS. This isn't his war, but he's got a lot riding on how it all plays out, and he's not the only one. 

Owen's group is easy enough to talk about, even if it sets his teeth on edge just thinking about them. But he doesn't know how to explain Jadis and her group, or whether they're even worth mentioning. Morgan and Jenner, that's _intel_ , though whether it's more damning to spell it all out or leave it all out, he has no way of knowing. 

He's filled up 23 pages in the blank book that Henry'd given him, and he'll probably fill another dozen before it starts feeling complete. If anything, at least it's all starting to feel real again. Organized, almost, like it's a chain of events, and not a crushing avalanche all coming down on him at once. 

And there's a large enough library here that Ezekiel probably wouldn't mind vouchsafing it on a shelf somewhere, just in case. 

\--- 

_Thursday, 10/16/2149, 19:32_

He'd been too shaky- and too aware of all the strange curious eyes on him- to actually want to eat in the mess hall. This time, it's easier. He knows how the chow line works, and following Jerry and Ezekiel back to a table in the corner means he doesn't have to navigate anything on his own. 

Ezekiel's nearly laughing at him. "I take it you like the rice?"

"This is possibly the best thing I've ever eaten in my entire life." It's not a lie. The onions are fresh, the consistency and texture _exists_. "If you ever feel like expanding your kingdom, the colony would bow down on account of these eggs."

"Wait'll you try the peach cobbler," Jerry nods down at his plate. "Then come talk to me."  
Ezekiel nods sagely. "If I was running an actual kingdom, I'd take that under advisement." 

"I'd been meaning to ask about that..."

"We have elections," Jerry replies. "Just. Things are pretty damned good here. He keeps putting it on the ballot with all of the committees, but it's been like four, five years since anyone else even ran."

"Maybe we _should_ bring you up to the colony."

"Back off, Space Jesus. Find your own king."

"Space Jesus?"

"Yup."

"Okay." 

He blinks at Ezekiel, who conveys with a look that _yes, he's always like this_ , and tries the cobbler. "Wow," he says, mouth full. "You weren't wrong."

"I never am," Jerry smirks, then glances up, his face brightening even more. "Your highness, Space Jesus, if you'll excuse me..."

Ezekiel makes a shooing gesture, and Paul watches him take his tray to join Nabila, who's just come through the chow line. 

"I'm only about halfway through your notes," Ezekiel says, once he's gone. "I found them quite interesting, though I'll admit, I passed them on to Carol because her curiosity was driving us both insane. I'll return to them tonight. Thus far, I only have two questions that are fully formed in my head."

"All right, shoot." He sips his beer; it's the kind of good that would cost an entire day's pay up on the strip, and they have it out on the line here for _free_. 

"One. How are you still alive?"

"Luck and other people's skills, mostly." 

"Fair enough."

"The second?" 

"How much do you understand about the war here on Earth? I'm not asking to be patronizing, I just don't know what you've heard."

"I'm not great on the details- specific battles or troop movements. But in general? NATOPS has been the dominant superpower for the past hundred years, with heavy corporate ties- up until the point the war started running everything into the ground across the board. The SA originally emerged to try to balance it out, starting out with protests, and it escalated." 

Ezekiel's eyebrow twitches. "All right, good. That's actually a more level assessment than I would've given NATOPS schools credit for." 

"SA supporters don't make it onto ships to the colony, and the Council keeps a pretty tight oversight on the newsfeeds, so... there's actually an incredibly heavy bias. We didn't actually know that NATOPS was involved in anything suspicious on the colony until after we'd already left it." 

"Fair enough," Ezekiel nods. "So yes. A power as large as NATOPS needs money and spends money, so they wind up in hock to corporations that could help them with both sides of it. As grim as that was, they were able to coordinate and organize and maintain societal infrastructure on a very large, broad scale. Roads, hospitals, research colonies on the very edge of the universe. While their deployment of resources may never have been all one would hope, that they were there to do it at all was, for most people, justification enough."

Paul nods. He knows most of this, but it's the best way to get a picture of Ezekiel's thinking. "So where's the SA come in?"

"The Social Alliance, yes... they're more complex, more varied. A social movement, at first. By the time anyone was aware of them, they were on campuses on six continents. Rallies, peaceful protests, demanding food, clean water, an equal claim to a dignified life. Gradually, their attempts at negotiation being met with derision and dismissal, their rage began to boil, and so NATOPS did what it always did, and started levying their forces against them. And I'm guessing you know the rest."  
Paul nods. "When it all started, which side were you on?"

"The SA's ideology and professed ethics appealed to me. But when the war came home, became _real_ , there was no good side to be on."

He can't imagine a place like this existing with NATOPS approval, but then again, this many people, they'd probably need their backing. He makes a guess. "So you enlisted with NATOPS?"

"Kind of?" Ezekiel wrinkles his nose. "See, before all this, I was a zookeeper, more or less, working at this animal sanctuary, still trying to work my way up to full time and taking political science and theater classes just so my school loans wouldn't go into repayment. Found out I qualified for loan forgiveness from the NATOPS Diplomacy Corps, and so economics won out."

Zookeeper, _right_. 

"Of course, three months later, an EMP sent the entire financial infrastructure back to the 1500s, so it wouldn't have mattered anyway." Ezekiel rolls his shoulders and glances up at where Carol and some other adults are joking around with Henry. "Of course, at the same time, that was the moment the war came to Georgia. So there were a few years of that, good people getting killed for worse and worse reasons..." Sighing, he shakes his head. "Anyhow. Eventually, NATOPS and the local SA did have the wisdom- _eventually_ , after two or three pandemics- to declare Atlanta neutral territory. 

"I heard a story about one of your meetings," Paul prods, the curiosity finally getting the better of him. "Shiva?"

"It's amazing what people will do when you bring an apex predator to the negotiation table."

"It's true?"

"And when it's a month-old tiger cub, people find themselves pack-bonding before they even mean to." 

"That's... not quite the way I heard it." Paul blinks. "Good plan, though."

"I wish it had been one. Right before the meeting had started, a colleague from the sanctuary brought her by. The sanctuary had been bombed, they were trying to move the other animals out to Texas, and didn't think she would survive the trip. I didn't have time to get her home, so I just brought her with me. Though, I meant what I said. That was the first day of negotiating the declaration of Atlanta as a neutral territory. Thankfully, high tempers are powerless against the most adorable kitten you've ever seen."

Paul laughs, but then the words sink in. "So if Atlanta's neutral, why is NATOPS re-establishing a base?"

Ezekiel sobers, and takes another drink. "The easy answer is that memory is short and stupid. The CDC needed to be able to address outbreaks without SA and NATOPS forces getting in the way, and also needed lines of communication with both sides to be able to get intel about them in the first place."

"What's the hard answer?"

Ezekiel leans in across the table, his eyes drifting over the chow line where some kids are chasing each other around. "At the risk of sounding like a conspiracy theorist, the hard answer is that there's something spreading that NATOPS is either _that_ worried about, or _that_ interested in."

Whichever the case, it fits with the rubidium research. He wants to ask if Ezekiel's read that far, but that's not important right now. "Which one is true?"

"I have the sinking suspicion that it's both, but I took myself out of the loop several years ago, and don't have the access I once did... which, in a convoluted way, is actually a good point to segue from my rambling to the situation at hand, unless you have any questions?"

"None that can't wait."

"All right. Well. It's my understanding that you've been traveling without a radio, yes?"

Paul nods. "I was hoping I could use yours- or have someone try to make contact with my people for me- while I was here."

"Our long-range transmitter stopped working three days ago. We still have FRS, but that'll only get us a mile out in good weather. We were heading out to scout for a replacement, or someone with the skills to fix it, when you, Jerry and Carol crossed paths. Once we're back in business, getting you connected should be no trouble at all."

"That's very generous, thank you. If I can help with that, let me know. Or if there's anything else- I'm not really used to just sitting on my hands."

"That's a gracious offer, and we accept. But there is one thing that I was hoping for..."

"Yes?"

"Would you be willing to go talk to the students at our school? As you can imagine, they're very excited to meet you."


	25. Chapter 25

_Friday, 10/18/2149, 08:29_

"...so no. The outer and inner layers of the membrane are self-healing, and the inner layers are completely impermeable. We're always running maintenance on it just to make sure everything's working all right, but there has never been an issue with it. Even if all the power went out, it would hold up for years on its own. Does that make sense?"

A sea of dutiful nods waves throughout the classroom. There are two dozen kids in here, some of them toddlers, some of them Carl's age. There's art on the walls, there isn't a tablet to be seen- not even a screen- and none of the students are in uniform. He's been trying to remember if he's ever seen a classroom like this in a vid or a book, somewhere, but nothing's coming to mind. 

It's surreal, though, standing up and talking about Colony One, simplifying it down as if every single question wasn't sending him in eighteen different directions all at once, none of them relevant to anyone here. Four hours ago, the sky'd been that muted sun-facing colony orange, closing in on him with claws and teeth bared; he'd woken up sweating, heart racing, like he'd really been _running_ , and now he's _here_ , in a classroom, where everything seems to be okay. 

So far, he's been grilled about what school on the colony is like, the terrain of the planet, what kind of music he likes, and the structure of the colony. Does he have a girlfriend, how are trans people treated, what is a vid, what is a _screen_ , and what happens if someone gets sick. He's explained the basics of jump drive tech, waste management, water reclamation and air filtration to the point where several eyes started glazing over, and he's starting to feel sorry for them all. 

Another girl, this one younger, raises her hand. "Do you have horses?"

He laughs. "I've actually never seen a horse in my life until yesterday. There aren't actually any animals at all, where I come from. There are a lot of machines and systems in place that could be dangerous for them if they got loose and found their way inside, and it's not safe for them to travel on board the ships."

"All right, everyone," says the teacher whose name he's already forgotten, as Jerry edges in the door. "Looks like we've got time for one more question."

"Are you an alien? _Are_ there aliens?"

"I... I suppose it depends on how you look at it," he says. "I was born on the Colony, which is a different planet, so there's that, but my parents were both from Earth. So I guess I'd say no? We haven't become a different species, or anything like that. And no, I've never seen an alien, but that doesn't mean they don't exist."

This turns out to be a matter of some consternation among the middle-grade students, as the side conversations rise to a fever pitch. The teacher- Erica? Eliza, maybe- has to clap her hands to get their attention. 

"Good job everyone, great questions. Looks like our visitor's time is up, so let's all say thanks!"

He waves, nodding at the teacher, and edges towards the door to where Jerry's waiting. 

"Looks like Q and A with Space Jesus was a hit," he says, leading him out the front door of the converted emergency services trailer and onto the well-worn grass. "You ready to change gears a little bit?"

"What's up?"

"The weather's cleared. We're going scouting. You in?"

"Of course."

"Great. Wouldn't take your answer-man hat off too quick, though, 'cause it looks like you're pairing up with Carol."

He nods- he's been expecting as much- and then it occurs to him. 

"Is, ah... is Shiva coming?"

"Dunno, guess we'll see," Jerry shrugs, far too casually, Paul decides. "Just kidding, man. She's a terrible backseat driver." 

\--- 

_Friday, 10/18/2149, 08:44_

Gramps'd had a winch set up on his truck, so's he could haul himself or someone else out of a tight spot. After a solid twelve hours of bein' stuck out here on account of a flooded road and Dan's dumbass idea to just try drivin' in the grass instead, Daryl would murder for one of those old gas guzzlers now.

"All right," Joe shouts at Len, "Try it now!"

They've tried pushing and pulling- not that they could get any traction in the sucking mud. They'd unleaded everything and hiked it back to the road in hopes of lightening the load, then realized it was only making things worse. He'd spent most of yesterday afternoon hiking back to the shed they'd passed with Billy, dismantling some shelving, and hauling back panels so they could give the tires something solid to move on; they'd split. So he'd then gone back with Len, cobbled together something sturdier out of the rest of the shelving unit, but by that point it was past dark, and Joe'd called it until morning. 

Apparently, the ground's dried up just enough that the wedge panels aren't just sinking further into the sucking mud. They both break, severely, but the truck's got enough momentum, now to keep going. Still, it ain't until Len's made it up and across, back on solid ground, that anyone's willing to all it a win.

They're all muddy, cold and nobody's well-rested. They'd all taken a watch rotation, more out of a complete inability to actually get any rest in the too-cramped tent than anything else. If anything would've actually happened, they wouldn't have been able to do a damn thing about it. 

He'd spent his shift pacing along the dry edge of the road, trying to will Paul into existence just down the road. He'd be moving quietly, having just escaped the Wolves who'd been keeping him hostage, so he wouldn't make any noises, wouldn't wake the others until Daryl'd had a chance to ease them into the idea of not shooting him on sight. Or he'd be in the middle of their throng, surrounded by armed assholes on all sides, which meant Daryl had to consider the lines of sight. Out here in the open, there ain't much for cover- the truck, and a few trees clustered together on the far side of the road. He'd found seven places to lie in wait, but he hadn't been able to stop himself from pacing out of them.

But finally, they're on the road again, so relieved to be sitting down and actually moving that it's jarring when Joe starts talking.

"All right. We're gonna hit Z83 first, see if Cosmo's still around, see what's what. If we catch up to them there, we'll deal with them. If they ain't, we're gonna hit up the Perler stash before doin' anything else. This whole thing's got me on edge, and I don't like not knowing if they've already gotten there first."

A round of nodding assents circulates throughout the truck, Daryl's included, so he kind of hates having to ask. "If the stash is so important, why not move it closer to the hospital?

"Weapons, mostly. Think the cache from the other night times ten. Kind of things in the kind of amounts you wouldn't want to keep on hand anywhere kids could get to them."

"Weren't no reason to move it, and it was about as secure there as anywhere else." Joe shrugs. "Back before the war even hit stateside, it used to be some doomsday prepper's place. Nice, secure, and out in the middle of buttfuck nowhere."

Billy takes over. "Back in our true-blue SA days, me and Harley helped set it up. Things were getting tense around Atlanta- word was there were gonna be talks, setting up Atlanta as neutral territory. Which we figured meant spies on the road, so we wanted to stash everything as close as we could before they all got their negotiation team into place. You know, just in case the talks went south, we needed to be ready to act."

"So what happened?"

"Nothing. Atlanta was declared neutral territory, and the war moved on. Most of the other SA holds around Atlanta either got moved or looted. But it was a real small crew that knew about this place, and most of the others are dead."

"It could be totally empty by now, but it might not be, hence the tear gas."

"And if it's the Wolves?"

"Hence everything else we brought with us."

\--- 

_Friday, 10/18/2149, 09:16_

It's cold enough that the itchy wool hat is worth it, but the bandana around his neck isn't doing much at all. All the same, he tries not to fidget too much.

"Don't worry," Carol thumps the dashboard. "The heat still works in this thing, shouldn't be too long."

She seems more alert, once they're out past the walls, but more relaxed, too. For the first mile or so, as they follow the other trucks down the gravelly road, she points out features of interest, as few as there are: a few gardens, an old mine, the bombed-out remains of a housing division that've been picked nearly dry. 

"So," Paul says, once the convoy ahead is pulling out onto a larger road. "Back on the colony. You were Techniki, yeah? Is that how you met Daryl?" 

"I don't remember actually meeting him. More like, I just got used to seeing him around the same edges of things I was edging around, and eventually we got to talking. Figured that we'd both gone out there looking for a fresh start, but neither of us had remembered to leave the assholes that had made our lives hell back on Earth. Wasn't for him, I don't know that I would've ever gotten up the nerve to leave."

"I take it you knew his brother?"

Her lips curl as she rolls her eyes. "Merle? Yeah." She falls silent, for a moment, scanning him with a quick sideways glance. "Merle's dead, isn't he?"

Frowning, Paul nods, watching another of the vehicles pulling off onto an exit ramp ahead of them; Carol doesn't follow. "How did you know?"

"Daryl never would've have left him, otherwise." Coming up close on the tail of Jerry's truck, she slows down, her eyes taking on a mischievous glint. "Hey, I don't suppose you know whether a bastard Techniki named Ed Peletier is alive or dead."

"Sorry, no, I don't. I'm guessing pretty much anyone else I came out here with would know more than me."

"How are they all, anyway? How's _Dwight?_ " This last is said with dismissive snort that Paul's not certain is warranted. 

"I don't even know if any of them are alive," he can't help pointing out, but he forces himself past it. "But. I don't know, good? He and Sasha are together, they seem pretty solid."

"No kidding? What about Sherry?"

He has to think back. "They split up? Yeah. Least I think so. Daryl said something about her and Merle hooking up at a resupply party."

"Well, I always figured she was a little bit stupid."

Paul doesn't know where to go from there, but he also knows it's better to be the one asking the questions, most of the time. _Thanks Gregory_. "Did you know Sasha?"

"Not well. I liked her, but I really didn't talk to too many people if I didn't have to, back then. Wasn't in the best headspace. I trained her on the valves when she was first getting started." She nods in approval. "Quick study. Sharp." 

Paul nods. "That she is... She's the one who put the whole plan together in the first place- coming down here, convincing NATOPS to continue support," He smiles without meaning to. "Stealing the ship."

Carol laughs. "Good on her."

"How about Carl?"

"Not as much as Michonne and Rick. He's got to be, what, fifteen, now?"

"Seventeen, I think. Maybe sixteen." 

"And you said he got caught up in a riot?"

 _Riot_ seems too small a word for it. "Yeah. The launch bay doors were about to open, we had to get him on board, put him in stasis until we could figure out how to work the surgical bot. He wound up losing an eye, but other than that, he pulled through all right." He hates how glib he sounds. "I mean. Far as I could tell. Daryl's practically his uncle, he could tell you more." 

Out on the highway, the other vehicles long since broken off, they're start to make good time. After ten minutes or so, he notices a cloud, a thin, narrow line drawn clear across the sky up ahead. "What's that?"

"The flyover? Don't really know." She leans forward in her seat to get a better look, but doesn't appear to be thinking much of it. "Nobody really does. There's never any chatter on the wire about it. Could be SA, best guess is NATOPS, though they've never announced it and nobody in the cities seems to have any more idea than we do. I know _some_ people actually think they're Colony ships."

"If we'd had enough available for that, we could've saved ourselves a _whole_ lot of work."

"I'm still a little surprised you got that old can flying- the research vehicle," she shakes her head, and before Paul can prepare himself for any kind of segue, she asks, "Daryl. Is that where the two of you met up? Or was it before? I mean, you were Admin, right?" The _and ne'er the twain shall meet_ is heavily implied, and for all Carol's familiarity with the colony, this is the first time she's really sounded like she's _from_ there.

"Funny story. First time we met, I saved his life. Second time we met, he smashed my hand with a wrench. Third time, he was smearing his blood all over me, faking my death."

Her eyes go wide. "Seriously?"

"Wasn't until after that all happened that he actually said two words to me." 

"Sounds like him, I guess," Carol grins, shaking her head. But then she arches an eyebrow and looks at him. "So, was it love at first sight or third?"

"What? No." At least he doesn't sound as startled as he feels, but the nerves are spiking too much to stop himself from looking away and adding, "not even close."

"Paul, your poker face is pretty good, but it's got nothing on _his_ , and I can read him like a book at 50 yards." 

She doesn't apologize or shy away from it, but she doesn't prod, either. But at least she's got the grace to change the subject to something that doesn't send his thoughts spiraling out in too many directions all at once. "So, I know there's a lot of context I'm missing, but stealing the research vehicle, how did _that_ happen?"

Paul doesn't get the chance to answer, though, because the handheld's chirping to life, and Jerry's on the line before Carol's even picked up her handheld.

"Your Highness, I think we've got what we need. But we hit the scariest motherlode ever, I think you all should come take a look. East of the zoo on 83, then head south on the tracks. Old maintenance station"

"Holy Ghost, copy that," Ezekiel's voice crackles. "All points, let's bring it in."

"We're on our way," Carol replies, eyebrows raised at Paul as she sets the radio back in its cradle. "This should be interesting." 

\--- 

_Friday, 10/18/2149, 09:42_

Daryl's been staring out the window at the vapor trail for a long time before it occurs to him that he doesn't even know which airports are functioning, but it ain't worth asking about. He already knows the important part of the answer. 

Shit's always workin' better someplace else. 

If the front had mostly moved south, it's possible that the cities up to the north have recovered to the extent where airplanes are an option. It's weird, though, not havin' any real frame of reference for where that might be. 

It's probably the kind of thing he should start figuring out, sooner rather than later. 

"Road's clearing up," Billy says from up front, nodding down at his map. "Should only be another Another half hour or so."

\---

Their car falls back into formation as the convoy merges together again. They wind up following Ezekiel's car- a hatchback- up to a bridge, where they park. Dianne, Jerry's second in command to hear Carol tell it, pulls her truck onto the grass next to them an instant later. 

Carol's got a wary eye on the trailers piled up on the other end of the bridge, and isn't hurrying to be the first out of the truck.

He doesn't blame her. Two of the vehicles look like they've been knocked on their side, the trailers going to rust. There are rags and tarps spread out from one of the rear panels, some kind of shelter extension, built by someone with only a rudimentary grasp of basic engineering principles. 

"What's that?"

"Z83. Animal transports." After a moment, she nods. "They're all long gone, but it's shelter out in the middle of nowhere, so sometimes there are people. A guy named Cosmo runs the place, I guess you could say."

"Is he a friend?"

"He's a little loose in the head- a little loud and insane, prone to telling stories about the animals he says speak to him, but he's peaceful. Good people. Only thing is, he's not all that picky about who he lets crash, so..."

Paul fills in the blanks, and waits for her to nod to herself, turning the truck off. The passengers of the other two vehicles- Ezekiel, Henry, Nabila and Dianne seem to be eyeing the wreckage with similar caution as they climb out of their vehicles

"Any trouble?" Ezekiel asks Carol, following her gaze towards the overgrown wreckage.

"Seems quiet, is all. You'd think Cosmo'd be out, people in his back yard and all."

"We'll swing over there once this is all said and done," Ezekiel decides. "For now, let us sally forth to discover what Jerry has to show us."

Carol nods, but then hangs back as the others start to walk down the embankment towards the train tracks below. Easing the trunk open, she pulls out a pack, which she settles high on her shoulders, and a belt, which she settles low around her hops. A moment later, she's settling a sidearm into the holster. 

"Everything all right?" Paul asks, eyes back on the trailers, because glancing at the gun is a bit too pointed. 

"Just being cautious," she says, smiling up at his worried expression. "Don't worry, this is SOP."

They descend to the tracks, where Ezekiel and Nabila are dawdling, prodding curiously at a plastic-wrapped pallet of concrete mix, which Nabila's insisting looks mostly intact. As a group, they begin to follow the tracks south, catching up easily with Henry and Dianne as the ground starts to rise again.

The mood is quiet as they walk, and Paul's not going to be the one to break the silence. The tracks themselves are worn. Every so often, roots from the surrounding trees are pushing against the trackbed, splitting beams and skewing metal. Henry's balancing halfheartedly on the track as he walks, though once his interest wanes, his path starts to meander, veering left and right. 

"Henry," Carol warns, no real heat behind it. 

"What do you think they've found?" Henry asks; clearly he's been waiting for someone else to speak first.

"Well, Jerry did say he found a radio." Dianne says. "If he's worried about the rest of it, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that it's weapons."

Henry sighs, disappointed. "Just wish it was something interesting, for once."

Paul doesn't get a chance to ask what that might be, because by the time it's occurred to him to wonder, they're practically already there. 

"Up ahead," Ezekiel announces, quietly; Paul glances up from the gravel to see Jerry standing in the middle of the tracks, waiting. He doesn't wait for them to reach him before heading east into a clearing, towards a small hill. 

It's the first time he's seen him when he's not smiling, Paul realizes, and it's that, more than anything, that has him worried. "Is that some kind of bunker?"

"I know not," Ezekiel states, sounding surprised, and a bit worried. "We rarely stray to this side of the river, but even so, I've not noticed it before."

The heavy steel door is already open when they cross the grass towards it, but Paul can read the blandly official looking sign as they draw near: _GPR rail vibration test facility: for flood management or other concerns, call (678) 344-9898_.

"C'mon," Richard calls out from the doorway, and Jerry shakes his head at Ezekiel as he passes. 

"This is insane, man."

Paul falls into line and follows Carol inside; it's about the same size as the RV's cargo bay, but when Jerry turns a lantern on, the crates and shelves lining the walls are all different. And Richard had been right. The shelves lining two of the walls the shelves are stocked with guns, ammunition, and unfamiliar equipment, there are MRE's along the third, wrapped in the same drab packaging that the NATOPS had used.

"So yeah," Jerry's telling Ezekiel. "Door was overgrown, locked, we cut the bolt. Figured it was just gonna be old computers, control panels. A databank, maybe. That kind of thing."

He's not wrong; the wall next to the door has been taken up entirely by a shallow dusty gray cabinet housing valves and darkened readouts. It's doubtful any of them have worked for years. 

"Henry," Ezekiel says quietly, once the kid's had a minute to get a look around. "Henry, would you mind keeping watch outside?"

Henry does as he's told; its only when he's reaching into his coat pocket as he passes that Paul realizes that he's armed. Exchanging a wary glance with Ezekiel- clearly, there's something about this situation that neither of them like- Carol follows a moment later. 

"Radios are over there," Richard says, pointing them towards the back. "No way of testing them out until we get them hooked up to power, though. There's another on that workbench, there, but it looks pretty rough. Want us to grab all three?"

"No. For now, we take two radios, enough ammunition to replenish our stocks, and that is all. It could be that we are making an enemy of someone, here, but let's not rile them to the point of retaliation." He pauses, and glances towards the door. "Actually, no. I'd feel better if each of us were armed for our return journey. Better safe than sorry." He surveys the group for a minute, leaving the option for comment open. When assenting- if not enthusiastic- nods are all that come in reply, he nods. "Nabila, set a beacon outside, but hide it well, I want this site added to drone patrol as soon as we return. Let's be quick, shall we?"

Paul tries to make himself useful, following the others' examples and poking through the shelves, but the numbers on the boxes of ammunition don't mean anything to him, and the weapons themselves all seem like dangerous animals, ready to pounce. By the time he gives up pretending like he'll be any use in that department, Richard and Dianne are already packing up the radios. 

"Paul," Ezekiel catches him looking lost. "Do you know your way around firearms?"

"Not unless there are any blasters hidden around somewhere." 

"Doubtful," Ezekiel snorts, his hair whipping out as he turns back to the shelves, rummaging through the plastic cases. Opening one of them, he nods to himself, pulling out a small handgun, no larger than a blaster. "All right, this should suffice. Give me a moment."

Paul watches Ezekiel examine it, turning it over in his hands and peering down the barrel, eventually flipping a switch on the side; a cartridge falls out into his hand. Angling himself so Paul can better see, he starts sliding 9mm bullets into it, pressing them down, one by one, under the catch at the top. Once he's loaded a dozen or so into the cartridge, he snaps it back into place.

"All right. This, here, is the safety," he says, showing him a switch on the side of the gun. "It will not fire when in this position. If we are met with confrontation, and people are shooting," he thumbs it open, and closed again, with his thumb. Otherwise, holding it is about the same as a blaster, though it's heavier, and according to Ezekiel, will kick back once he fires. For a while, he just stares at it, far more dazed than he should be, as Ezekiel talks him through the rest of the handling. Mostly, what comes through is that he should use both hands to steady his shot, he should avoid pointing it at anyone he doesn't want to shoot, and that when he's out of ammunition, the side of the barrel will slide open and stay that way. 

He promises to find Jerry or Carol for additional training and practice once they've all made it back, and then, far too simply, Ezekiel's handing it over. Paul, for his part, thinks he could use a few minutes to wrap his head around it, and he thinks he's freezing up, a little, not sure what this means or how scared he's supposed to be, but Ezekiel's already moved on.

"Jerry," he calls out, "how are we on padlocks?"

"This one, and one more back in the cabinet," Jerry confirms, rummaging through his utility pockets as he heads for the door. "We're good."

"All right, then," Ezekiel announces, clapping Paul on the shoulder as he nudges him towards the door- like at least he's aware of Paul, and maybe the loop he's just thrown him for. "Let us all be on our way. The sooner we have this in our rearview, the better." 

\--- 

Paul convinces Richard to let him make himself useful by carrying one of the packs; it's lighter than he's become accustomed to over the past two weeks, but the weight's smaller, harder against the small of his back, knocking softly against his spine with every step. 

With a word from Ezekiel that she doesn't seem to need, Carol falls into step with Paul as they begin to head back down to the tracks. She's not the only one scanning their surroundings, but Paul doesn't see anything. 

All he can do is watch for her cues, and hope there's nothing worth reacting to.

\--- 

_Wolves are near_

The paint on the trailer door is dried, but but the body's recent enough that the scavengers are still picking at it. Mostly rats, who scatter immediately when they approach, but the fox seems a little more intent on it. She nearly gets herself shot for her interest; Daryl's relieved to see her scampering off towards the eastern end of the bridge. 

The head's mostly gone, the face chewed up and the cranium almost absurdly empty, but apparently the fringed leather jacket is enough to identify the body as Cosmo, and nobody really wants to look that much closer, not even Joe.

Len's puking on the pavement next to the guard rail; he's the first one to raise the alarm. 

"Yo boss," he calls out, wiping his mouth with his sleeve as he points in the direction the fox had gone just moments before. Down at the foot of the bridge on the eastern side are four vehicles, apparently noteworthy. "You think it's the Wolves?"

"Don't usually see them driving," Joe scowls out at them, shaking his head as he adjusts the grip on his rifle. "But I've never seen them go after Cosmo, neither."

At Joe's signal, they fan out. Daryl rounds out the northern end of their line as they approach, slowly.

The vehicles have all been abandoned, but Joe touches their hoods, each one in turn, before taking a deep breath. 

"Three of them are definitely warm," he says, jaw set, and gestures for all of them to fall back. "Get back to the trucks, gear up. We need to go move on the cache, and-"

"Hey Joe?" Billy, still on the bridge, is squinting south down the tracks. "We've got company."

He's not wrong. About a hundred yards out, there are six or seven people, heading this way, all armed. 

" _Shit_." Joe waves everyone to the north edge of the bridge; running back west at a crouch, they duck behind the trailers and head to the truck. Len reaches it first, opening the back before Joe can even give the order. 

"Masks on, everyone." Joe starts passing out the gear. "Gas should slow 'em down, but be prepared to fire. Len, you flank from the east, Billy, you go west."

Seeing where he's going with all this, Daryl shakes his head and reaches for his bolts, then his crossbow. "If I can get behind 'em, I can shoot without drawing fire."

"Fair point," Billy agrees, strapping a mean-looking knife to his hip. 

"All right, Dan, gab the gas and a rifle, you're on the bridge. They come inside twenty yards, drop the canisters. Billy, you're down below with me. Wind's blowing south, so be ready to follow my lead the cloud starts to disperse." Joe sighs, passing the tote full of canisters to Dan. "Everyone, make sure you cover up. We're gonna be in the thick of it."

The Wolves are a little over fifty yards away, now. The second anyone heads out on the bridge, they'll be spotted. Their literal upper-ground advantage might be the only thing they've got going for them. 

The rubber edges of the mask are harder against Daryl's face than he'd expected, and it takes him a minute of trial and error to get everything secure. It'll take longer to get used to the limited peripheral vision; how small the world looks, how much a pain in the ass it is, not bein' able to see the ground at his feet. 

He'll manage. With a nod at Joe, Daryl eases back, skirting the western base of the bridge as he gets off the road and heads into the trees. Cover's thicker across the tracks, but the undergrowth here is still plenty dense. 

The ground's sloping down towards the tracks; the rise to the south makes a kind of bowl in the terrain, cut in half by the bridge. Long as he stays here by the edge, and doesn't get too directly south of where Dan's gonna drop the tear gas, and doesn't trip over his feet, he should be okay. 

\--- 

"Shit," Richard says, hefting his pack on his shoulders. You see that up there?"

"I see them," Ezekiel replies, barely moving his mouth. "Everyone, slow down, just a bit. We've been spotted." 

Dianne rubs a hand over her eyes, snaking a sweeping glance to the east. "Just the two of them?"

"One more up on the bridge," Jerry says. 

"Think we got another on the east side, too," Carol adds.

Henry takes a deep breath. "What's with the masks?"

"Tear gas," she replies. "They wouldn't be standing so close, otherwise."

"At my signal, Carol, Henry, Nabila, you head east for the trees. Leave the radios out of the line of fire. They're not worth dying over, but they are worth retrieving if we can. Everyone else, you find cover to the west. Cover your faces as best you can, I don't know if it'll help but try. I'm going to attempt a parlay, but you will all stick to cover and make your way back to the vehicles."

"All due respect, your Highness, but screw that, I'm coming with you."

" _Jerry_."

"What, you gonna stop me, or are we gonna do this?"

\--- 

The old barbed-wire fence tangled up in the brush is a pain in the ass to contend with. By the time Daryl's he's cleared it- making far too much noise- it's clear that the Wolves have already spotted Dan up on the bridge. 

"All right!" one of them, a tall man with graying dreadlocks, shouts, "scatter!" 

Daryl presses back against the tree trunk, he tries to focus. Through the gap in the trees, he can see three people disappearing into the woods on the other side of the tracks, but nothing more. Others are kicking up gravel and rustling in the long grass down to his right, probably about ten, fifteen yards.

Not breaking cover, yet, he waits. 

Moving slow and careful, he readies his crossbow, loads the bolt, and waits for a target to come into range. 

Listening's more important than looking, right now, which is why it's such a fucking _pain in the ass_ that that asshole starts shouting again. 

"Greetings and salutations, we come in peace" the man shouts, the pompous prick, "I feel we are on the precipice of a grave misunderstanding, and I must speak to the person in charge!" 

Daryl's got a bead on him only for an instant before another man, larger, carrying a gun in his hands and a fucking _spear_ on his back, blocks his shot. He's aiming up towards the bridge, presumably at Dan.

For a moment- a brief one- Daryl imagines just letting him take the shot.

He can't hear Joe's signal from here, all he sees is the two men suddenly dodging back, quickly. He's not even sure that he hears the canister hit the ground, but he does hear Dan's muffled, startled shout, and this is where it all starts to go to hell. 

\--- 

Gunfire breaks out; Paul can't see where it's coming from, but the splinter of wood hitting him in the face is enough to get him moving. He scrambles up into the grass on the west side of the tracks. Up here where the ground's leveled out, there isn't as much cover as he'd like, but the man on the bridge has just thrown another canister down, and one of the three is starting to emit a whistling streak of pressurized gas, bouncing in the gravel along the trackbed until it bounces suddenly, careening off to the side. 

Now there are _two_ streaks, spewing and hissing all over the place. Jerry's already grabbed Ezekiel and is trying to drag him back; both of them are coughing. And there's more muffled shouting, too, maybe from the side of the bridge, maybe from underneath.

"C'mon!" Richard whisper-shouts at him, waving him back towards the trees, but up on the bridge, the man's already winding up his throw-

-it sails far over Jerry and Ezekiel's heads, smacking and rolling along the ground a few yards short of where Paul himself is standing. 

The canister's more of a ball shape- gridded and rough, with a spout on one end- and it hasn't gone off yet, but it _will_ , and he's closest, so he breaks his scant cover once again. Dashing forward- _don't go off don't go off don't go off_ \- he sweeps it up and throws it, hard as he can, back at the bridge. 

His eyes already stinging, he doesn't see where it lands; the answering gunfire startles him from even thinking about it as he dives back into the tall grass, nearly crashing into Dianne.

The next gunshot is one of the loudest things he's ever heard, the percussive _blast_ of it sending him stumbling back against Dianne as they _both_ fall down. He rolls out of it, managing not to elbow her in the face.

When he risks a glance over his shoulder, all he can see is a thick cloud of brownish white where the bridge- where _everything_ ought to be. 

\--- 

Daryl hears Joe's mask-muffled shouting, and then he's being stung with splintered wood and thrown gravel; the gas in the air settling in to sting almost before the sound of the explosion can even register. 

The fucking Wolves have _grenades_ , and apparently, that's the signal. Gunfire's going off all over the damned place and he can't even see where, can't see _who_ , and his ears are already ringing too much for him to track anything-

-keeping to a crouch, he spins on his heel, just in case he's been distracted too long, and nearly fires a bolt into a tree. 

The dust cloud's thick down below; It's spreading, though, permeating the trees.

He's useless just sittin' here, though, and the longer he does, the more the cold air and stinging scrapes on his arms make themselves known, so he edges forward slightly, creeping up to the edge of the trees. Through the mask, he can't taste or smell much of anything beyond rubber that's starting to break down, but the damned thing is cutting his field of view down to nothing. He's startled when he turns his head to see someone running away from him; he's just about to run after them when he makes out another mask, long brown hair sticking out every which way from underneath, walking along the track, gun at the ready. 

It's Len.

Not knowing what else to do, he flanks him from the trees, keeping one eye on Len's path and one on his own as they head up the rise. The worst of the dust cloud seems to be thinning, up here. Another few seconds and he'll be able to see what's what.

\---

If they stay here any longer, they'll be cut off.

"C'mon!" Richard, the first to break cover, waves at them, and Dianne's the first to run out. 

The second they reach the tracks, she's stumbling in another spattering of gunfire. Richard's already grabbing her hauling her to her feet before Paul can even take the first steps. 

They're returning fire, blindly, into the fog, and all Paul can manage is checking the safety on his gun for the third or fourth time. 

All he's really able to confirm from his point on top of the hill, is the complete and utter _pointlessness_ of the whole thing. But that's not stopping it from happening. 

The attackers all have their masks on. While the cloud's making clear sight impossible for everyone, the gas is doing nothing besides misting uncomfortably, stinging the slivers of exposed skin at his neck and wrists. The bandanna's probably doing no good at all, but taking it off doesn't seem like it'll make things any better.

And now the wind's picking up, and he's probably already in someone's crosshairs.

He needs to move and he can't. Crouched down in the grass, gun in both hands, he can't even remember if the safety's off or on underneath his thumb. He breathes- it stings- and forces himself to _pay attention_.

He can just make out the shapes of people moving through the fog below. Unsurprisingly, Paul's not the only one who's thought to try simply _avoiding_ it. Two of the attackers are already heading this way.

The one in front has a rifle, and the other, keeping to the treeline and wearing a leather vest like it's not _freezing_ , is toting a mean looking device that Paul recognizes only as a weapon of some sort. The man sets it down, suddenly pulling at something that changes the shape of the frame. Not so much, though, that Paul can't recognize the rifle-like stock underneath. Both of them are looking downhill, though.

They're drawing a bead on Ezekiel, who's heading towards where Richard and Dianne had just gone. 

Ezekiel glances up, briefly- towards the attackers and past them, maybe, at Paul- but between the gas and the trees, it's all probably just a dark wash against the sun from where he's standing. 

He doesn't know that he's just become a target. 

Too suddenly, the darker-haired man fires on him.

Less than an instant later, the shooter's been speared through the chest. 

_Jerry_. 

Everything slows down as Paul realizes, finally and maybe too late, what he has to do. 

He tries to remember to take a breath- it doesn't work- and raises his gun, flinching at the sounds of yelling and nearby gunfire fade away as he exhales. He tries to ignore the sight of the speared man sliding ridiculously down the pike that's propping him up; he needs to focus on the one who's still alive, still a threat.

Who's swinging the business end of his bizarrely framed gun towards Jerry and Ezekiel- who haven't _gotten away yet_ \- and who's leaving Paul with an opening he needs to take, _now_.

Moving closer as silently as possible, he creeps closer. He thinks as loudly and deliberately as he can, trying to will the guy in vest to just _drop_ his weapon and leave, but the bastard doesn't even flinch. He's going to force it, Paul's going to have to-

 _Breathe_.

His stomach's in knots, the rest of him is striving for numb as he shakily lines up his shot. His finger eases around the trigger; apparently there's a sick little part of him that's ready to do this.

His target's breathing deep- they're _both_ taking aim- and Paul's eyes slip down far enough to catch sight of wings embroidered into the leather of his vest-

- _painted on Techniki coveralls_ \- 

-and Paul _flinches_ , pulling the trigger

His target tries to stand and stumbles sharply to the left, swinging his weird gun around, one-handed, towards Paul, his aim landing nowhere as he jerkily goes down to one knee. The frame weapon wavers as he twists, trying to look down at his own back at the blood-stained wing, and then he's shaking his head, like a wild animal, like he's trying to send the gas mask flying so he can lunge up like Shiva and take Paul's jugular between his teeth.

Paul keeps his gun trained on center mass, wishing time would just _stop_ , for a few seconds, for long enough that he can swallow down this sickening spike of fear that's only been spreading since firing the shot. 

Anything would be enough, one way or the other, but Paul hasn't re-learned breathing, and his grip on the gun's too tight, and he knows- he _knows_ he's going to have to fire again-

The man finally sweeps his arm up under his own chin, knocking the mask off with a feral snarl.

And _Daryl's_ glare lands on his gun, then on his face, then the gun again, all in the space of a second. 

It's a distraction- Paul realizes too late, already too thrown by the _sight_ and the vertiginous _relief_ of that glare- because he only _barely_ catches the movement of the knife Daryl's pulling from his belt. 

But it's too late- Paul's somehow moving, somehow already dashing towards him, gun forgotten, and-

-and he's close enough, now, to have a knife at his throat.

The murder in Daryl's eyes, though, is enough to gut him. 

\--- 

He's been hit- Daryl can't tell how bad, just that his shoulder and upper arm feel like numb _fire_. 

The burning in his eyes is sharper, though, because he's going to die crying like an idiot. Insult to injury, taking his gas mask off so soon, leaving himself so damningly _open_. 

Beyond that, all he can really tell is that the person grabbin' at his arms is wearing a long coat and a scarf over their face, and is _way_ too fucking _close_ and Daryl can't hold them _off_ because his arm's barely holding himself _up_. 

The distressed sound he hears himself making, shoving back, sounds like a wounded animal, only worse, but whatever it is, it's enough that the man's spooked enough to back away. 

Out of range, too, unless Daryl wants to try throwin' the knife, which, he don't have his other arm to counterbalance with, the whole damned thing's numb. His back, though, is warm, wet, and stinging underneath his vest. 

" _Daryl!_ "

He spots just the hint of movement- and a fresh round of burning stinging in his eyes- before he manages to track the source. 

"Daryl," they say again, and there's a grinding _halting_ in Daryl's chest that-

The gun's falling to the ground and his shooter's shaking their head, and dragging at their bandana- 

- _good to see the other side ain't any smarter about that shit than he is_ -

-and suddenly, _Paul's_ crouching in front of him, shouting his name, but his eyes are all wrong- _his_ , but too sad, too afraid. Carved too damned deeply into Daryl's memory for it to be real. Tryin' not to look, maybe tryin' to clear himself of the vision, Daryl jerks his head away so sharply that everything starts to swim and he feels like he's falling, about to hit pavement, and he's gasping his breaths, now, just tryin' to keep even. 

He can't remember closing them but his eyes are squeezed shut. Against the burning fog, against whatever this is about to become when even he gets his _hopes_ wrong, but he can't _not_.

"Paul?" He chokes on the breath he tries to take. 

" _It's me, I_ -" 

Right now, Daryl doesn't even give a shit if it's real or not, it's just instinct to look up.

He does so, just in time to see the furious concern slamming down over Paul's face; he's shaking his head quickly- emphatically, at something Daryl can't see- and he's and raisin' his hands.

It should be enough time to think of something to say, formulate a question at least, but his mind's blanked out, trying to process too much all at once, and all he can do is feel blood trickling down his side and the the burning wakes of tears as he tries to keep Paul in his sights. 

Paul's dressed different, the coat and all, not at all what he'd think to remember him in. It's all wrong, hallucinating him like that, if that's what he's even doing. He can't see his hair, and it's fucking ridiculous, how much he wants to, but-

-maybe he's just dying and seein' shit he wants to see, somethin' beautiful before-

The sight of Paul lurching over, reaching towards him as he coughs, eyes squinted into slits, _ain't_ beautiful.

"You're. I-" Paul's huffing out a breath. "You're hit, I need to take a look, okay?"

 _Good idea._ The thought's more distant than it should be, but the instinct to believe him, though, it's right there.

"Yeah."

"Can you, ah. Drop the knife a sec?"

He doesn't drop it, but he lowers it, and then everything starts to come into focus again. The pain in his eyes, the fire in his shoulder and numb empty space that's where his arm ought to be. 

He can't even hug Paul when he gets close enough. He's bleeding too much. 

\---- 

Everything slows down as Paul crashes to his knees, just not _enough_. 

Daryl's gone so gray that the red is too bright. But it's there, faded around his burning squeezed-shut eyes, and bright where the blood's soaked through the stitches of the patch on his vest. Paul's getting it all over himself, too. It's on his hands before he even manages to wrestle Daryl up into his lap so he can find some way to-

-Daryl's still conscious enough to curl into a full-body cringe the moment Paul manages to get a hand pressed against his shoulder. Then he goes slack, horribly, all at once, and for a second, Paul's brain just shorts out. He remembers to breathe- he doesn't know if Daryl still _can_ \- but-

"Jesus fucking _Christ_!"

The startled, mask-muffled voice is surprisingly loud, _much_ closer than it ought to be, but when Paul looks up, all he can make out is the barrel of a gun, held _too fucking close _to his head.__


	26. Chapter 26

_Friday, 10/18/2149, 12:20_

" _Please_ ," Paul curls himself over Daryl as best he can- one hand on where the wound might be, the other on the back of his head. He's not sure who he's trying to hide, here. "He's hit, needs _help-_ "

He thinks he feels Daryl breathing. Maybe it's just the wind finding its way into the sliver of space between Daryl's face and his neck as he squeezes his eyes shut- it does nothing against the stinging air- and waits for the bullet. 

A loud whistle rakes down Paul's spine, but then he can feel someone's presence at his back. It's almost comforting, until he feels the warm metal being pressed against the base of his skull and hears the gunshot. 

He's not hit- he's still got a brain to register the fact- but he doesn't know what else to do besides hold on tighter. 

"Move any closer, I'll blow your boy's head off!" The whistler shouts over them, erupting into a coughing fit; the gun slips away just enough for Paul to risk a glance in spite of himself. 

The whistler- older, brown hair going white- is pulling his mask back down over his face, but before Paul can even try thinking of a way to use the distraction to his advantage, the window has passed. Whistler's noticed him shifting, and now the gun's pressed to his temple. He squeezes his eyes shut, like if he does it hard enough he can just stop everything. Freeze them all in place- his fingers tangled in Daryl's greasy hair, nothing yet sliding into the _worse_ that's coming. 

Daryl's hand finds Paul's shoulder, gripping and deliberate, and it's not enough but it's _something_. 

But he's breathing, too, Paul's _sure_ of it. And it needs to keep happening. 

He forces his eyes open- he can't see much of anything through the tears- put people are moving up the hill, guns at the ready like they're waiting for a signal. But nobody's shooting. 

If they're being held hostage, demands should be made, and the man isn't saying anything at all, so Paul takes a deep breath, snarling as it sears the inside of his mouth, and shouts. 

"Don't shoot! We need a medic!"

\--- 

_Diplomatic to the end_.

Paul's shouting for a cease-fire like people are going to _listen_ to him, fer chrissakes, but somehow, Daryl's pretty sure, they're both still here. 

Then again, wanting shit don't make it so. Could be he's just wastin' his efforts, 'cause all Daryl knows for sure is that he's tired and cold, and that Paul sounding _that_ panicked is not the last thing he ever wants to hear. 

"You hear that?" Joe's shouting out from right above them, his words tight and pained. "I'd listen to your boy, sounds like he knows what he's talking about."

 _Patronizing asshole_. 

Daryl musters the energy to let go of Paul's shoulder- regretting it when Paul's hand slips out of his hair- and smacks Joe's leg. Not as hard as he'd like. 

"Leave it," he manages to grind out. His eyes are burning, he's leanin' more than he should be on Paul, and for all he knows, he's bleeding out so the irritation comes to his voice naturally. Even if he doesn't know how many words he's got left. "He's jus' tryin' to help."

"Daryl, you idiot," Joe grinds out, "he's the one who _shot_ you." 

Paul's face is pressed against his neck and he still ain't lettin' him go; Daryl ain't sure he wants him to, even it hurts like hell. But that ain't half as bad as the litany of " _sorry, hold on, sorry_ " that he's only just now actually noticing.

It takes a few seconds for Joe's words to sink in.

Paul shot him. He doesn't know what to do with that. 

Doesn't fuckin' matter, though. He _does_ know he doesn't want him _leaving_ , doesn't want him _hurt_ , so he squeezes his arm again, tries to tell him something he ain't got words for. He takes another breath- more aching, now, than burning- and releases it in a laugh that sounds too much like a sob.

"So what you want blood?" His throat's scraped raw; it's the least of his problems. "Take it from me, there's plenty to go around."

There's more shouting, much of it distant- something about bloody Marys? The thought of askin' for a last drink has him smirking. But gradually, one voice rises above the others. 

"- doctor. If you let him see to your man, I'm willing to negotiate an end to this."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you will have revealed yourself as having no honor, and we will be brought to another end. None of your people will be spared."

Daryl doesn't have the strength to even try looking as everything starts to fade, but whoever it is sounds like some king in a play he'd never seen. 

It's fucking ridiculous.

\--- 

_Friday, 10/18/2149, 12:27_

People are talking over them like they aren't even here. It's fitting; he doesn't have the attention for them, either. 

Effort expended, Daryl's gone slack, maybe unconscious, and Paul feels something warm soaking into his own collar. Paul's certain that if either of them move, if he relaxes his grip even an inch, what little blood's left inside of him will come pouring out. He keeps his head ducked against Daryl’s, hiding as best he can. 

He doesn’t want to face up or let go, even when the people move in around them, even when someone's tugging at his arm. 

Daryl’s his, and he’d done this to him.

In his peripheral, he can see the speared man being dragged roughly out of the way. "It's _okay_ ," the voice attached to the hands- Jerry, he realizes- shake him just a bit. "We need to get him stabilized, stop _fighting_."

Daryl doesn't fight him- hopefully it's because he doesn't want to, and not that he _can't_ \- as Paul shakily releases his hold. He's _awake_ , though. Sweating and confused, and probably about to pass out, but he's trying to smirk at him. 

Helping Jerry roll him onto his side, Paul glances up, looking for any indication of what he's supposed to be doing next. Carol's standing over them, gun in her hands as Ezekiel makes his way over to Joe, divesting him of his gun; Nabila's doing the same from the side. Paul doesn't bother tracking the others until Dianne's suddenly there, kneeling and shooing him out of the way. 

She pulls Daryl's vest off of him; Jerry slits open the back of his shirt with a knife, and after that, it's just blood. 

He'd caused that. It's all over his hands, too. But he can't even look at it. 

There's still noise, people talking and coughing, but it's muffled.

Jerry's rummaging quickly through his pack, pulling out a bottle of water, bandages, as Dianne tries to see what's what.

"Fucking hell," she mutters, surprised, as she swipes at the gory mess. "Through and through."

 _What's that?_ he wants to ask, but his voice won't work. Instead, he looks down at Daryl's face, scrunched up uncomfortably, eyes screwed shut. Watery blood rinses across his throat like it's been slit, but his hand's right _there_ , though, and he wouldn't be getting any more in the way than he already is, so he takes it. 

Daryl squeezes back. 

"In through the back, looks like it skidded through, came out on top," Dianne's telling Jerry. "But the bleeding's slowed down, that's a good sign." She looks up at Paul, then down at Daryl. "Okay, Daryl? You're going to be fine, just hang on. We're going to need to bandage everything up and keep pressure, especially on the exit wound." The wound in question is torn up and angry, in the muscle on top of his shoulder. She's already placing a bandage over it. 

"What do you need me to do?"

"I'm going to start wrapping it. I need your hand here-" she picks it up and places it on the other side of Daryl's neck. "You know how to take a pulse?"

"Kind of?"

"Just count the pulses. Out loud. Daryl?"

"Hm?"

"We're going to have to start moving you around, get you bandaged up, okay? Help however you can, but stay off your left arm and don't force anything. It's gonna hurt, so let us know if it's too much."

He nods, just as Paul's hand slides into place. He keeps it there as Dianne and Jerry lift him up into a sitting position, cutting the rest of the shirt away. 

Daryl's wincing, blinking at Paul; it's a few seconds before he remembers to start counting. As Dianne and Jerry start wrapping bandages over his shoulder and across his chest- uncomfortably tight, by the looks of it. 

Dianne glances up at him, nodding in time as he counts. "Okay, that's good."

He doesn't start looking cross until they start manipulating his left arm into position high against his chest.

"...two thirty seven... two thirty eight..." Paul finally trails off, nodding in time with Daryl's pulse, and nobody calls him on it. Dianne and Jerry don't even seem to be paying attention any more. 

Another few minutes, and Dianne gives Jerry a nod, then leans over to meet Daryl's eyes. "All right. You're going to be okay, we've got you bandaged up. Still need to keep pressure on your injuries, especially up on top, so we're going to help you back to the truck. Don't fight us on this, all right?"

"No promises," Daryl grumbles, tiredly, as Jerry and Paul help him to stand. He wavers on his feet- Paul reaches out to grab his pulse again, catching another spike that takes a minute to fade. 

"You good?" 

Daryl's face is streaked with grit and dried tears, same as everyone's. "Yeah. You?" 

And Paul has no idea how to answer- he wants to wrap his arms around him, shout and laugh and squeeze tight, but now's not the time. He just laughs, then, like his thoughts were too loud, glances around to make sure he's not actually making a scene. 

Dianne and Jerry are gathering up their supplies; Daryl's two remaining compatriots are already being nudged up the tracks, hands out at their sides, by Ezekiel and Henry. There's no sign of Richard, but Nabila's waiting, staring worriedly at something over Daryl's shoulder; when Paul turns to look, he sees Carol there, looking equally lost. 

"All right," Dianne's suddenly grabbing Paul's hand and placing it down over the bandage on Daryl's shoulder with an instructive, almost irritated look. "You guys ready to move out?

Daryl nods; being off-balance, it takes them a few seconds to get turned around. With Paul's arm up across his back and digging- probably too hard- into his shoulder, and Jerry applying pressure to the shoulder blade just beneath, they finally starts moving. He's staring at the ground, so it's up to Paul to direct him. 

And, he figures, to make introductions, shaking his head at Carol, then smirking, then nodding for her to come over. 

"Hey, Daryl," he says. "Long story, but... you remember Carol, don't you?"

\--- 

_Friday, 10/18/2149, 12:49_

Daryl looks up- meaning to glare at Paul, ask him what the fuck he's talking about- when his eyes latch on her. 

_What the hell?_

Her hair's grayer than it used to be, shorter too, curling out at all angles, but her eyes and mouth are sharp and smirking, just like he remembered. It's _her_. And she's moving in on an intercept trajectory, and stepping to the side, glancing over his shoulder. 

"What the hell?"

The pressure on his back is gone and back again in an instant; turning to try to keep sight of her hurts like hell, though. 

"Good to see you too, asshole."

He's trying to figure out what to say when more shouting up ahead makes him flinch, just as Paul's grip tightens- almost enough to bring him down completely.

 _Thought this shit was done_.

"Fucking _hell_ -"

The big guy who's been working on his back is off and running towards the fighting- up where they're marching Dan and Joe back towards the bridge, Billy and some guy- one of Paul's- are lurching towards the group. 

Carol's leaning across him, looking at Paul. "Wait here."

Paul's nodding, already shifting so that his arm can annoy the fucking hole in his back while Carol cuts across their path and behind them. Craning his head hurts, but Paul gets the message, shuffling back so they can turn to look. 

She's skidding to a stop by Len, who's his kicking his feet and thrashin' his arms uncoordinatedly around the spear sticking through him into the ground- somehow, he's still _alive_. 

A moment and Carol's gunshot later, though, and his limbs don't curl up tight and buglike, the way Daryl's half-expecting them to, they just drop down to the ground, and she's walking back towards them. 

"Sorry about your friend," she tells him, a grim look on her face. 

"He ain't my friend," he replies, so easily that takes a minute to realize that this ain't the first time the two of them have said shit like this to one another. Laughing hurts, though, and whether or not she gets the joke, she's movin' on ahead towards the rest of the fighting. 

Like it's just something that she's used to. 

_What the fuck?_

Joe and Dan, it's like they don't have the brains to take their opening to just run, though given the firepower the others are using, it ain't like they'd get all that far, if it came down to it. 

Even so, it ain't doin' shit against Billy and the other guy, they just keep coming at them. 

" _Henry!_ " Carol's shouting, probably at the kid, tellin' him to get back; Jerry's already firing; one of them drops. A moment later, the guy with the dreadlocks blows Billy's head clean off. 

"What..."

He doesn't know where to start, what he needs to ask first. He doesn't even realize he's said anything at _all_ until Paul sighs. Pressed together like they are, he can actually feel it.

"Long story. Apparently, it just _happens_ sometimes."

" _What_ happens?"

"Dead people coming back to life." He sounds exhausted, frustrated. "I don't know."

 _Is that what happened to me?_ It's on the tip of his tongue to ask, or to joke, but he thinks better of it. 

Up ahead, Carol and the others are prodding carefully at the presumably now-dead bodies; maybe the danger's passed, maybe it hasn't, but the big guy's waving his arms.

"Hey Space Jesus, c'mon, let's clear out!"

Paul shifts- he's waving back. And then he leans against Daryl, just a bit and too briefly. 

"You ready to go? I got you."

"Yeah." He shifts his weight experimentally, his shoulder knocking Paul in the chin. "Hang on."

It's gonna be awkward no matter how they cut it, but Daryl shrugs, and eases his good arm out to the side. It takes Paul a second to get the message, but he relinquishes his death-grip and gives him room to move- which hurts and pulls in ways that Daryl's apparently too dumb to care about- then eases up under his arm again. 

A little more shuffling, and he's got his good arm around Paul's shoulders 'cause it's all he can really manage like this. At his nod, the two of them start walking, and it's as awkward as he'd predicted; he keeps tripping over Paul's feet. And even with as careful as Paul's bein' about tryin' to keep the pressure steady, twin points of raw grinding pain are flaring up out of the hot numbness on his back and shoulder.

He grits his teeth, and they soldier on, uncoordinated, until Daryl's free hand is captured against Paul's chest in an uncarefully vice-like grip. Shifting his balance to allow it brings them hip to hip, and suddenly, he's anchored. Probably should've done this from the start. 

His fingers are already twined between Paul's; it's no effort at all to squeeze back. 

Here, at least, they can hang on as tight as they want, and it doesn't hurt a damned thing.


	27. Chapter 27

_Friday, 10/18/2149, 19:21_

Paul's eyes still hurt. Considering everything happening on the other side of the medical trailer door, it's a stupid thing to notice. 

Once he and Carol had helped Daryl into the trailer, there hadn't been time to notice much more than how cramped it was, how surprisingly clean. They'd crowded Daryl inside- he'd been halfheartedly batting their hands away and halfway to passing out- and then they'd been shown the door. 

So he'd sat down on the stoop, as unobtrusively as possible, and he'd started to wait. 

Daryl'd been lucky. The doctors keep saying so, whenever they poke their heads out long enough to say anything at all. 

The bullet had skidded off his shoulder blade, bouncing up through the muscle to exit on top of his shoulder. And there's so much left to _chance_ that Paul can't think about anything else. A slight shift in angle would've shattered the shoulder completely. If Daryl's head had been turned, it might've continued on to his jaw. An inch or two to the left, his entire shoulder joint would've been blasted to smithereens. A few inches to the right, the bullet could've hit an artery, his lungs, his spine. 

Will all Daryl's luck, infection and nerve damage are still very real possibilities. They'd had to cut into him, widening the wounds just so they could pick bits of shattered bone out of his shoulder before stitching the soft tissue together the best they can by _hand_. 

No stasis chamber, and no surgery bots; nobody here's ever even seen one in person.

Dr. Carson had looked at him like he was crazy when he'd asked about it. Carol'd explained it to him afterwards: stasis was expensive, complicated tech. The sort of thing you might make an effort to develop when sending people clear across the universe, but not the sort of thing you'd install in every clinic. 

He's still stewing on the fact that Earth's own people, apparently, weren't considered worthy of the investment when Carol makes her way across the yard, sits down on the stoop next to him.

"Any news? It's almost dinnertime."

He shakes his head. "Not yet, you? How'd the meeting go?"

She shrugs. "We've got Daryl's two associates in holding, but they're refusing to talk until they see Daryl. I think they think that's their only ticket out of here, and with the way they're acting, it's probably going to work out for them that way. Ezekiels' fighting with Henry and Dianne over whether or not they should attempt to go recover the bodies."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

He should ask for details, or at least whether Carol had known Richard well, but she's mirroring him, now, elbows on her knees, staring blankly across the yard at Barrington house, lost in thought. Whatever's on her mind, though, she seems to give up on it, and looks over at him. 

"Could be a while, yet. You hungry?"

He doesn't get the chance to answer, because _finally_ , the door creaks open behind him, and, like every time before, he has to jump out of the way to prevent being hit. His legs are asleep, but that's irrelevant, because Dr. Carson is easing it shut behind him and smiling wearily. 

"We chased down the worst of the damage, hopefully didn't make anything worse. But he's in good shape, all things considered. We're going to be keeping an eye on him for a while to make sure infection doesn't set in, and he needs his rest, but if you'd like to go poke your heads in for a minute, I'll allow it. "

"Thanks, Harlan," Carol says, easing up to her feet with more grace than Paul had managed; he follows inside, not quite managing to avoid hitting his hip on the counter as they make their way to the back where Daryl's been set up in one of the two narrow beds built into the walls. 

He's lying on his side, propped up by foam cushions, probably to keep himself from aggravating the wounds on his back or the arm that's been redressed and braced to his chest. He looks half asleep. 

He looks _awful_ , like that one picture in the environmental history textbooks- the beached whale caught up in old nets and garbage. His skin's streaked and gritty, making the bandage wrapped around his shoulder and chest stand out all the more brightly, except for where it's gone an unpleasant rusty yellow.

"Hey Daryl," Carol says, edging sideways to make room for Paul and leaning in, so he can see her. "How're you feeling?"

Daryl blinks too slow, and his eyes don't really focus on them- they're barely even open- but he's trying.

"Hey, what're you two..." It's nearly a whisper, and when he swallows it looks painful, but his mouth quirks into a confused smirk, and it's the most beautifully _alive_ thing Paul's ever seen. Then Daryl's eyes widen, suddenly, darting between him and Carol in surprise. 

"Am I dead? 

\--- 

_Saturday, 10/19/2149, 03:17_

There's no telling whether it's closer to sunset or sunrise, but he's woozy and sore, which means that apparently, he's _awake_ again. 

Probably not for long, though. His skin's buzzing, but the ache's not buried completely. Shifting experimentally, trying to ease the crimp in his hip without aggravating his injuries, he _almost_ finds a comfortable position when he realizes that he's not alone in here. 

"Hey, try not to move too much, okay?" 

He follows the voice- quiet, just barely crackling above a whisper- and squints at the shadows next to what he's assuming is the window. "Paul?"

"Yeah." Thin metal drags across the floor as a shape shifts into the light. It only _almost_ looks like anyone at all. "I'm going to get the light, let me know if it's too much, okay?"

His still on the way to nodding when he's blinded by a flash of light, though it's dialed down immediately. As his eyes start to adjust, he's able to make out the familiar planes and angles of Paul's face. 

His face looks washed out and skeletally hollow, but the shadows are all wrong and it takes a minute to realize just how much his beard's filled in since the last time he'd seen him. The white collared shirt he's got on is only a step above threadbare- probably why he's hunched over his crossed arms like that- 

But it's still easier to stare at that than it is to look him in the eye.

"How're you feeling?"

He can't really tell, 'cause everything's muted; his left arm feels like sleeping dead weight. "Like I've been shot and dosed up." 

"Yeah..." Paul lets out a breath like he's been hangin' onto it for hours. But he scoots his chair forward, close enough that if Daryl's left arm wasn't tied to his fucking chest he could touch him. He looks like _hell_ , this close up, all exhaustion and blank miserable concern. 

It's grating, so he heads it off- they'll have to talk about it at some point, but he's too damned tired. "What time is it?"

The laughter is short and the smile is brittle. "Late enough that Carol finally called it a night and turned in."

Okay. So he really _had_ seen her, and it's not just his imagination fuckin' with him. That's something, at least. But he doesn't know how to ask, doesn't know where to start, and he can hear the breath Paul's taking, and even with as fuzzy as everything is, he knows that Paul ain't changin' the subject.

"I need you to know, I'm _insanely_ fucking sorry, I just-"

"Hey, no." The words he gets, but it's the tone of Paul's voice- pleading and afraid- that he hates. "It's all right. Mean, least I finally _found_ your ass."

"Technically, I found yours." Paul smirks, shifting like he's about to unclench his arms, but then he just sorta leans in tighter. "Then spent a solid day worrying you were going to slip into a freak coma and die, no big deal." 

Shit. He'd missed a whole day, and his head's clearin' up just enough to realize that that ain't the half of it. He ain't got a clue what Paul's life's looked like, the past few weeks- what he's been doing, been _through_ , or how he'd joined up with Carol. He don't know what it means, him and them windin' up on opposite sides of a gunfight, and he ain't really sure what's changed because of it. At least when it comes down to the aftermath- the wondering about who's alive and who's dead- it's a question he's gotten used to askin' himself. And really, worryin' about Paul, that's become some sort of habit, too. 

"Sorry," he says, rocking back so he can free his right arm enough to push himself up. As much as his shoulder and arm don't appreciate the movement, his back does. 

"What- _don't_ ," Paul's already lurching out of his seat like he's gonna do somethin' about it, but Daryl's got his legs under him enough get footing against the mattress, and he pushes his back up against the wall. The fucking pillow's annoying, though, and he can't quite reach around to adjust it. 

Paul, apparently deciding that he's not actually risking life and limb by sitting up, pulls it out just enough that it's not pressing against his left shoulder. 

"Dr. Carson finds you like this, he might have words."

He might have words, too, about Paul half-kneeling on the bed next to him, but the man'd _also_ spent the day cutting his shoulder open, so doesn't really give a damn.

"Ain't like I'm dead," he points out, focusing blearily at his immobilized left arm. It still feels like it's asleep, and suddenly, he realizes what that might mean. But he can unclench his fist, and wiggling his fingers shoots sparks of pain into his elbow. Hopefully, both of these are good signs. It's tiring, though, sitting up like this, and he ain't sure how long until he can keep it up. 

"Yeah, well, you'll have to take it easy for a while. How's the pain, do you need anything?"

Not great. But not yet bad enough that he'll cop to it, or the inevitable flurry of activity- probably including a visit from Dr. Carson required to get dosed up again. "Manageable."

"Let me know when it starts getting bad, I'll get the doctor." Paul waits, and he smirks like he's only humoring him once Daryl nods. But finally, he decides to let himself relax a bit, and the mattress dips as his weight settles against Daryl's hip. "So," he says, the brightness in his voice only a little bit forced. "Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?"

Daryl snorts. "Great. You?"

"Good times all around." His eyes locked on Daryl's bandaged shoulder, he lets out a sigh and shakes his head. "This whole... _ugh_ , I don't even know where to start, but..."

"Yeah." 

He gets it. 'Cause in a lot of ways, this, right here, is the best things have been in weeks, and as long as they're not talking, the rest of it don't have a chance to seep in. But delaying the inevitable just means waiting longer _for_ it. It's fucking exhausting, how tiring it is- mentally and physically- to hold his hand out just to knock against the side of Paul's arm. But it's worth it- in his head, he can admit it- because when Paul catches hold of it, shifts to hold it against his chest, the anchoring doesn't cost him any effort. Paul's right here, breathing and living, and that's making up for more of it than it probably should. 

"Connor's dead," he says. If he's clinical with it, if he just sticks to the main points, maybe it won't be so bad. "Carl, Sasha and Dwight are on all on the way to DC. NATOPS convoy." 

Paul shakes his head, eyes closed, but whatever he's thinking, he doesn't say. "The ship's gone."

"Yeah." His turn again, but he doesn't know what else to say. 

"And this whole war doesn't seem as clear-cut as it used to. Those people you were with, were they SA?"

"Think a few of them used to be, yeah." Years can change things, though, which reminds him. "What about Carol?"

Paul actually grins. "Remember the kingdom Spencer was talking about?"

Not really. "Yeah?"

"You're in it right now. And Carol's the queen. And there really is a tiger."

_The fuck?_

Paul nods. "Seriously. They all seem like good people. Mostly I think they're trying to just do their own thing- I haven't been seeing any NATOPS uniforms around."

If that's the case, Carol being here actually makes sense. Even if _all_ of them bein' here at the same time really still doesn't. 

"The people I was with," he says, because _the people I attacked you with_ is just too fucked up right now. "What happened to them?"

"There are two in holding. Not talking, last I heard, but Carol said she wants to talk to you before any decisions are made..." 

He nods. It's getting harder, opening his eyes every time he blinks, but he's just remembered something. "Back there," he says. "You said something about the dead startin' to walk?"

Paul's silent for just long enough that he's figuring he'd imagined it. 

"Yeah."

"That's fucked up."

He can feel the breath Paul takes. "Yeah," he says on the exhale, "apparently they do. And the _really_ fucked up thing is that I'm pretty sure the colony has something to do with it."

Before he can answer, there's a creaking sound, cool air rushing in, and Paul's startled grip clenching tighter before letting go. 

"I saw the light was on," Dr. Carson steps inside, crossing his arms as he looks at the two of them, most pointedly at Paul.

"I know," he says- more petulantly than Daryl would've expected- as he stands up. "I was just going to-"

"Uh-huh." He bats him out of the way, then turns his attention to Daryl. "I'll make it quick. One to ten," he grabs a laminated sheet off the shelf overhead and holds it out to him. "How's the pain right now?"

The chart's color coded, and the details don't all really apply, but scanning it, Daryl figures it's between five and seven. Any trouble he's having following conversation is more about the exhaustion than anything else. 

"Five or six," he decides.

"All right," Carson nods, taking it back and passing it to Paul with a smirk. "What about you, you okay?"

"I'm fine," Paul grins guiltily, passing it back to him. "I get it."

"Just wanted to make sure it wasn't a concussion that has you forgetting what I told you about waiting until _morning_. And fuck's sake, get a shower, antibiotics are scarce enough without you bringing in god-knows-what from outside."

"I took one."

"Yeah, _yesterday_."

Paul raises his hands- mugging apologetically over her shoulder at Daryl- before backing away towards the door.

Things move quickly after that- but maybe only because he's less inclined to pay attention. Painkillers first, which he downs with water, and then Carson helps him over to the bathroom, lets him decline any further assistance. By the time he's finished, stretching his mobile joints as best he can, Carson's gotten the bandages and antiseptic ready to go. 

"Least you're properly awake this time," he mutters, setting the scissors down and tossing the old bandages in the bin. Daryl stretches his arm experimentally, cool air hitting his inner elbow for the first time in days, unknown aches finally making themselves known. "Here, turn this way."

Despite his words and the stinging, Daryl finds himself dozing off as he dabs at his stitches. By the time Carson's resetting his arm, his entire side is nearing absolute agony, and it's hard to focus on his instructions- moving that way, holding _this_ \- until finally, he's letting him lie down again. 

The buzz of the drugs and exhaustion start to do their work, he's feeling heavier and heavier until finally, he's asleep.


	28. Chapter 28

_Sunday, 10/20/2149, 11:13_

He's been up for maybe an hour, and he can feel the throbbing wrongness in his shoulder, the hot ache in his arm, and the dropping cold of the ice pack melting down his wrist, but he _still can't feel_ half of his damned _hand_.

"It wasn't this bad yesterday," he growls, just to be sure that he ain't accidentally whining. But he'd gone to sleep under the impression that things were healing, and apparently _sleeping on it wrong_ was enough to fuck everything up. "So what the fuck happened? Just roll with the fact my hand just don't _work_ anymore?"

"At least for the time being," Dr. Carson nods, finally letting go of his hand. "Once you give the swelling time to come down, function and sensation ought to come back."

_Ought to?_

"Look, I can't promise anything. We'll need to keep an eye on it regardless."

"What's the worst case scenario?"

"You learn to live with a somewhat limited range of motion for those three fingers. But even so, at least you still have your thumb and index finger. That counts for more than you'll know." Carson's patience is running out. "Look, there are others around here getting by just fine with less than that. I know it's freaky and stressful, and the big picture isn't your concern right now, but it is what it is." 

All 'cause he rolled over in his goddamned _sleep_. 

Fine. Whatever. 

"Is there any way to make sure it don't get worse?"

"For now? Ease off of trying so hard. Your injuries need time to heal, the inflammation needs time to abate, and you're not doing it any favors trying to rush it. On the bright side, now that we're easing off the hardcore painkillers, you ought to be able to get a better picture of what moving right and moving wrong actually feels like."

Carson eases Daryl's arm back up into the sling and wraps the support straps back into place. It's a little looser than before. Turns out Carson's just leavin' room for the ice packs, which he slides into place on the front and back of his shoulder.

"You guys doin' all right?"

Carol's hair glows bright white in the sunlight pouring through the door behind her, like some kind of halo, and Carson looks relieved to see her. "Unless you have any questions... " His expression when he looks back at Daryl is a _lot_ more circumspect, and Daryl probably ain't supposed to be getting any satisfaction over that. 

"Yeah, I think we're about done for now."

"All right, then," Carson nods in relief. "I'll clear out of here, then, give you two a chance to catch up."

Daryl watches him leave, judging the effort it'll take to get up with his whole upper left side bein' all out of whack. His arm's a weight that he can't really feel all the way down, and his head swims, a bit, when he rises to his feet. He tries to be inconspicuous about leaning against the wall as he does; he probably fails. Carol gives him room, though there ain't really nowhere else for either of them to go, it's so cramped in here, and then, finally, they're on even ground.

It's the first time he's really _seen_ her without the swirl of chaos or heavy painkillers sapping his focus. He's got no idea what the hell he's s'posed to say. 

"Uh, hey. Carol." It sounds off- her name. Like he's forcing it so hard that she probably assumes he's havin' to guess at it or-

"Hey yourself, _Daryl_ ," she laughs, shaking her head. "Good to see you up and about. How're you feeling?"

"I'm good, just..." 

-he's just whatever comes _after_ taken aback and before whatever that's supposed to come _next_ \- is. But that don't even make sense in his own head.

"Yeah, for what it's worth, I hear you. How about we just do this properly, then?"

"Huh?"

"C'mere." She opens her arms, waves him towards her. "Don't worry, I'll be careful."

It's only two and a half awkward shuffling steps, and then she's hugging him- avoiding his arms, which means he's got to figure out what to do with his still _functioning_ one. He manages to get a hand on her back, but he ain't sure about holdin' on any tighter than he's doin. 

It's awkward and kind of hurts, but it's better than last time they'd done this, when she'd been cryin' her eyes out tellin' him that she was getting off this damned rock, airlock or no The relief that it's like this- like she's _okay_ , like lyin' to everyone to cover for her back on the colony had been worth it, that she'd _made it_ \- he's fuckin' halfway to cryin' and he's damned glad there ain't nobody else here to see it. 

"Never thought I'd see your ass again," he manages, once he's had a second to swallow it all down. 

"Same here, and definitely not _here_. Small universe, huh?" She lets go and backs up, just a bit. "Paul's already filled me in on a lot of it, but I'm not really sure it _explains_ anything. Sounds like you've had an interesting few years."

"Dunno if interesting's how I'd put it." Especially not stuck up in here. 

And apparently she can still read his mind after all this time, 'cause she brightens. "Well, one of the major advantages of being back on Earth is that you _don't_ actually have to spend all your time cooped up inside. Want to take a walk for a bit?"

"You're springin' me?"

"I mean, our little hilltop kingdom is great, but I don't know why you'd want to limit yourself to the second worst part of it."

"Second worst?"

"Well, there's the brig, where your friends are currently causing one hell of a stir by not saying anything at all. The rest of this place, though... I think you'll like it."

\--- 

_Sunday, 10/20/2149, 11:40_

They're walkin' a slow circuit around the open yard in front of the big house for now. He thinks he could manage more, but it's kinda nice, not havin' to. 

And it's nice, just hanging out with Carol again. It's easier than he'd thought it would be, but it's different, too. 

_Carol's_ different. She's more confident, more relaxed and open, sayin' hello to people instead of keepin' her eyes down, laughin' at every little thing. She's like Superman, down here, all jacked up on sunlight. Only maybe not as simple as that. 

"Anyway, they let me out of the brig, set me up with a caseworker, and eventually we landed in Florida." Carol pulls a face. "Things there were going ass over teakettle, of course, because why wouldn't they be. The civilians were being moved out, they wanted me on a convoy to Canada with the rest of them. But by that point I was just sick of being in transit, you know?"

"I hear that," he nods. "Six months, nothing to do but think?"

"Exactly. And... I wasn't coming up with anything good. Didn't have anyone left down here, didn't feel up to trying to fit into place in Canada, so I kind of ran again."

He holds up a hand for her to slow her pace; his chest is starting to ache. "So you ran here?"

Something sharp and honest flits through her eyes. "If I'd heard about it then, I'm not sure I would've believed it existed... No, I was just _tired_. Figured I'd make myself useful, so I enlisted with NATOPS, long enough to get through training. I didn't really have a plan, but I did have a general impression that if I was just running out my years, my usefulness took priority over my longevity."

He's not sure what to say to that. She's standing in front of him, saying this shit in the middle of a sunny patch of grass in the middle of the afternoon, people pushing wheelbarrows around twenty feet away, like she's just talking about the weather or something. 

"Shit."

"Yeah. Anyway. Long story short, the base got attacked, we had to relocate, we came through a bit north of here and clashed with the SA. I got separated from the group, wandered the woods for a few days, and Dianne found me. And thank _god_ for her, you know?"

He's pretty sure he knows who Dianne is. "Remind me to get her a beer sometime."

"Might want to wait on that until things calm down a bit, but I'll pass it on." 

They start walking again, Carol filling most of the space with stories about getting the hops and barley established, or how the tiger that she'll take him to see later likes- and is terrible at- playing fetch. In between stories, she puts names to things- the school, the gardens, the garage and the workshops- and to the people they at the base of the steps coming out of Barrington house.

"Daryl, I'd like you to meet Jerry and Nabila."

"She sprung you, huh?" Jerry, seeming far more easy going than he had the other day, shakes his hand. "Welcome back to the land of the living." 

"More like the land of the living dead," the smirking woman next to him puts her hand up to her chest and nods. "Nice to meet you."

"Really?" Jerry rolls his eyes at Nabila. "This whole kingdom, here and _that's_ what you're going to lead with?"

"To be fair, there are not any zombies _inside_ of these walls." She shrugs; he doesn't know her but he can tell that she's teasing Jerry about it, as she grins at Daryl, then seems to remember herself. "Sorry. And seriously, no worries, it's all good, here."

Eventually, he's going to have to wrap his head around the fact that zombies are fucking real. But in the broad light of day, it just seems ridiculous. Them talking like this, Carol taking it at face value and saying, "I take it the meeting's going as well as predicted?"

"Well, the king ordered drone surveillance, but yeah, still not satisfying everyone. Started getting pretty aggro after you left, and the king wound up calling it for today. So yeah." He shrugs. "I mean, he's got a point, bein' cautious and all..."

"Yeah, well. Too much of that and we're cowering inside our own walls. Are our guests talking, yet?"

Nabila glances at Daryl worriedly. "Not a word."

"All right. I'll check in with Ezekiel and Dianne by this evening, see how it all balances out."

"Appreciate it, Your Highness." Jerry and Nabila both bow their heads and start to move off towards the residential trailers.

Daryl debates asking to see Joe and Dan, but he's not sure he wants to deal with the answer she might give. Instead, he waits until he and Carol are starting back towards the gardens again, and smirks. "Am I supposed to be bowing an' shit too?"

"Shut up." She glances up at the house; a window's just opened overhead. The man with the dreadlocks is fixing the shutter back against the siding, wearing the same expression Rick and Michonne used to get when their kids were bein' a pain in the ass. 

"Hey Zeke!" Carol steps out a few feet so that he can see her, like shouting up at windows is just something she _does_ , now. 

"Good afternoon, my queen! It does my heart good to see that at least _one_ of us is taking such good advantage of this lovely weather."

"Hey, you're the one who set the meeting." Carol rolls her eyes, but she's grinning up at him like an idiot, all wide and easy. 

Maybe it's just that he's starting to flag, but Daryl don't get it. War goin' on for decades and zombies runnin' around, and somehow, _these two_ got to be the leaders, here. Laughing feels like it might hurt, so he does't. But he probably would, otherwise. 

"And well met, Daryl!" The king exclaims. "It heartens me to see that you are making strides in your recovery. I'm afraid I must away to my next engagement, but I hope that you will do us the honor of dining with us in the great hall this evening."

"Uh, thanks. Good to meet you." 

The king nods back before disappearing inside, and Daryl turns to looks at Carol, who looks like she's waiting for him to give her some kind of shit. 

"Okay, _Queen Carol_ ," he smirks, "What the hell was _that?_ "

"Don't worry," Paul's suddenly coming up behind him, hands in his pockets, grinning tight and squinting against the sun. "I'm pretty sure he just means the chow line. Hey, Carol." 

He's fucking gorgeous, right now, standing under the bright sun like he's used to it, like he was always meant to be here, like there's no reason for Daryl to be startled by him. 

"Hi Paul," Carol says, 'cause Daryl can't seem to manage more than a nod. "Want to join us? I'm giving Daryl the grand tour, we're about to go see Shiva."

Paul glances between the two of them and sighs. "I would, but Jerry said the King was free, so I'm going to head up." The tightness around his eyes doesn't abate when his eyes drop down to Daryl's sling. "Have fun though. I'll catch up with you afterwards, yeah?" 

"Probably be back at the infirmary by then, but yeah." The words don't feel right- he ain't really sure how- but hopefully neither of them realize it.

So of course it just hangs there for two seconds too long.

"Perfect," Carol steps in, after what seems like hours. "I'll come find the both of you there when it's time for dinner, then."

"Sounds good," Daryl's quick to agree. Paul's shoulders are easing up and it's only now that Daryl's realized how tight they'd been, and it would have him wondering what else he's missing, here, but apparently that's what's fixed it, Paul lookin' as relieved as he is. 

"Sure thing." Paul nods to Carol and shoots Daryl a grin- a real one, this time. "I'll see you in a bit."

\--- 

_Sunday, 10/20/2149, 12:18_

"So," Carol says, as they finally reach the steps to the medical trailer. "Let's hear it, what d'you think of this place?"

It's overwhelming, and he ain't just talking about the towering walls, or the tiger. There's just too much to focus on. Walking around and looking at it all had wiped him out. He's sweating, even underneath what's left of the ice packs. The exertion has him sore all over except for the parts of his arm that creepily _aren't_. And for the last half hour or so, he's been too busy trying to sort out whatever _that_ had been with Paul to even take in anything she's been tryin' to show him.

But he takes another breath, and sets it all aside well enough to actually think about it for a second. And mostly, what he's gotten out of the whole tour is that the universe seems to be doin' right by Carol for the first time ever. The rest of it don't really matter. 

"I like it," he nods, then smirks, reaching for the door handle. "Think your boyfriend's kinda corny though."

"After everything, corny's kinda nice," she smiles. "And yours is cute when he's nervous."

Nervous? Shit.

_Wait_.

"Yeah, okay," Daryl snorts, but he's too slow to actually move, and she's so quiet that he's tricked into looking at her. And for all her smiling and laughing, her eyes are sharp and alert as they've always been. As long as he's focusing on that, he doesn't have to acknowledge the heat breaking out on his skin, or how fucking _exposed_ he's just become.

This is _Carol_ , and she's got her _you're really trying to bullshit me_ face on. And even after all these years, it still works on him. 

"Look, I dunno." He eases the door shut again, but doesn't let go of the handle. It ain't like he's really thinking he's got any chance in hell of gettin' through before she's said her piece or made him say his.   
"I, uh... don't really know what's goin' on right there."

Admitting it out loud isn't the crisis he'd thought it would be. It's more of a minor frustration, honestly, compared to all the other shit that's been going on lately. 

And it suddenly occurs to him that if there was anyone in the universe whose advice he would ask for, it would be hers. And compared to who they'd both been the last time that would've been a possibility, he actually _could_ , now. 

He just don't know about jumping from contemplating it to actually doing it. 

"Daryl, at the risk of making you pull _backthefuckoff_ face, the most _alive_ I've ever seen you look is when you're looking at him-" she raises her hands, only pretending to back off. "And there it is."

He sighs. Contemplates just disappearing back into the infirmary and never showing his face again, if only to avoid the increasingly inevitable _I told you so_. Instead, he just forces the muscles of his faec to relax. "What, so you're like a matchmaker now?"

"No more than I am a queen," she says. "Doesn't mean people don't tend to eventually figure out that I'm right when I'm telling them something." 

_Uh-huh._

"Plus, I barely know him- he and I have only talked a bit- but it was enough to see that he's head over heels for you. And I'm _glad_ , because you deserve that. And I think he might be good for you."

He sighs, looking up at her, and already regrets asking. "Why?"

"Because five years ago, you'd have been hiding on the other side of that door by now."

\--- 

_Sunday, 10/20/2149, 12:19_

"I apologize for the delay," Ezekiel says, coming up the hallway behind him, carrying a carafe and two mugs. "There was a minor situation down in the brig that required my attention, but all is well. Come in,"

"I'm glad to hear it," Paul says, following him through the door and into a meeting room.

"Yes, well. I've finished reading your account," Ezekiel says, once he's waved him into a seat at the table. There are four extra chairs, here, none of them taken. "If it's all true- and I have no reason to believe that it isn't, then it seems we are coming to an interesting time."

"It is," Paul assures him, nodding as Ezekiel holds up the carafe. "And believe me, boring would be nice."

The coffee is surprisingly strong and bitter, but he takes another sip as Ezekiel sits down to regard him across the table. 

"So. If I'm understanding correctly, your primary objective is to solicit aid from NATOPS, is that correct?"

"That was the plan."

Ezekiel regards him with resumed interest. " _Was?_ "

"It was the plan we made when we were still 78 million light years away. Looking at things from up close, I'm not sure it was the right one."

"And why's that?"

"Well, the colony needs support. Which means ships, and NATOPS doesn't seem to have much in that department. Even if they do, the launch sites, as far as I know, are all compromised, right?" Ezekiel nods, sipping his coffee. "And there's the matter of capacity. The war's still being fought, and there's a, what's it- a _zombie uprising_ to contend with here."

"While it seems you couldn't have known that until recently, surely you must have been aware of the other factors in play, even out on Thera."

Paul blinks. Nobody ever calls it that; it's always been just the colony- Colony One, if someone's being official. It's a bit like him calling Atlanta or the Kingdom _Earth_ , which, if he's being honest with himself, he's probably been guilty of doing himself. 

Whatever. 

"We knew, we were aware of everything that was coming through, but that's not the same as seeing it. And hell, the past few years, the databursts have been fewer and farther between."

"True. I find it interesting that you did not take that as an indication that NATOPS was not up to the task from the beginning. And yet you came all this way, only to be telling me now that you're hesitating."

Ezekiel, Paul decides, is smarter than he lets on, once he stops putting on airs. He wonders, briefly, if that's why there's nobody else meeting with him- no Jerry or Carol, or even Henry, so far as he can tell. 

"Well, they _were_ the ones planning on strip-mining us to death in the first place. They only reason they haven't, yet, is because of the accident at the relay station." He sips his coffee and straightens up. "Which actually leads me to a question. I know Dr. Jenner is your friend, but... do you know what he's doing?"

Ezekiel's eyebrows reach toward his hairline. "No," he says. "But I believe that _he_ does."

"And you trust him?"

"I do. But why are you asking me this?"

"Because he's wrapped up in all of it, somehow, and I need to know the angles. Right now I'm just guessing at them, and it's leaving me nowhere."

"How so?"

"Well, he was a CDC researcher who got brought on to work for NATOPS, and his research had something to do with the rubidium up on the colony. But after that, I don't know. CDC leads me to believe he was working on a cure, but NATOPS makes me wonder if it wasn't the opposite. Weaponizing the outbreak itself." 

His words are sharper and more accusatory than he'd like, but they have the intended effect; Ezekiel's eyes narrow, briefly, in irritation. Which is still not the factual confirmation he's looking for. 

"And this is something you intend on turning into an angle?"

"No, I just want to know what the angles _are_ \- I don't even know if I'm on the right track."

Ezekiel looks at him for a long time, then nods. "If you're referring to the zombies? Yes, I believe you are. Whatever his involvement, I can assure you that he had nothing to do with the outbreak."

He lets himself relax, lets himself show it. "I hadn't really thought so, not when I met him, but then I got to wondering," he admits. "What does it mean that he's run off?"

"In the grand scheme of things? Nothing. There are redundancies in the system. NATOPS isn't so destitute that they're literally down to their last epidemiologist."

He's got a point, and Paul's getting off track.

"No, I mean... Jenner had to have had a destination in mind, right? And from what he said, it sounded like there was some kind of work that he was trying to get to, possibly with the SA."

Ezekiel sips his coffee and nods. _Yes, and?_

"Work on a scale that's worth becoming a fugitive over... it would probably require resources, and as far as I know- as far as we've all been told- NATOPS has all of them, such as they are, right?"

"The answer to that depends on what you're planning to do with it." Ezekiel smirks, knowing full well all that he's admitting to. "But I will tell you that you're not on the wrong track. But more to the point, in the grand scheme of things, what good would knowing his whereabouts actually do?"

_That's just it_ , he wants to say. _I don't know_.

"None, probably," he admits, more sullenly than he means to. "It's just that in the meantime, we're stranding people to die on a rock in space while the powers that be vie for control of something that could spread out and kill everyone on _this_ rock." He lets out a sigh and shakes his head. "I mean... how'd it get to this point? Did all the diplomats just die off in the first attack or something?"

Ezekiel laughs. "Most of them, yes. But I suppose one could look at the situation and say that there's a vacancy waiting to be filled, if you're interested." He lets the statement hang there, for a second, watching Paul's face for a reaction. 

"What are you thinking?"

"Let's say you're right, that there is an operation, somewhere, outside of the NATOPS realm of influence. And let's say I could arrange an introduction," Ezekiel offers. "There would be conditions on such an arrangement."

It feels like a lock turning, but he doesn't let on. "Such as?"

"You would not endanger efforts by attempting to communicate anything you learned with NATOPS in any way, fashion or form, regardless of whether or not what you find is of use to you."

"And if it's not?"

"You would be welcome to stay on here at the Kingdom, but we would not take on the risk of allowing you to go to DC."

"So I'd be a prisoner?"

"I would hope for something far more integrated than that. I believe you'd be a valuable member of our community, if you chose to stay on. Because the war may rage on, but at the end of the day, this place, _these people_ are where I keep my concern. I hope you can understand that."

"I do," he sips his coffee, finds it nearly gone. "But I hope you don't mind me asking... if that's the case, then what's your interest in knowing as much as you do about it?"

"Because there are more people in the middle of this than there are on either side." Ezekiel looks at him steadily enough that he _gets_ it now, why he's the king. Benevolent as he may be, there's steel underneath all the theatrics. "And the two sides are, indeed, more evenly matched than you know Tipping the balance at the wrong time will only bring harm to everyone." 

_More evenly matched._ A simple phrase, confirming so much while saying so little. 

Clearly, not _all_ the diplomats had been killed off.

"I do."

"All right. I would think on this a while and talk to my advisors. I suggest that you do the same. You will probably want to talk it over with Daryl, though I trust you will use discretion when it comes to how and where that conversation may take place." Brushing his hands on his knees, Ezekiel stands. "Tomorrow you and I will talk again."

"Of course," he says, taking the hint to follow suit and get up. "But... one thing? I get why you're playing this so close to the chest. So I appreciate that you'll allow me to talk to him, but... why tell either of us even that much?"

"Honestly? Were circumstances different, I'd probably be speaking to Daryl first. Nothing personal, but this kingdom would be weaker were it not for Carol, and I don't know that she'd be here were it not for him."

"I see."

Ezekiel cracks a grin. "Please, don't trouble yourself unduly. I've only known you for a short time, Paul Rovia, but you're trusted and verified. And I hope, _very_ much, that you will take the offer under consideration."

They shake hands, but Paul can't help wondering. "Why's that?"

"We can mitigate the swings of fortune, we can maintain the balance, but opportunities to actually work for the greater good are few and far between, these days."


	29. Chapter 29

_Sunday, 10/20/2149, 19:22_

The anti-inflammatories seem to be working, though his ring and pinkie finger still won't move of their own accord. If not for the painkillers he'd refused and the sling- and Carson keeping watch from the next table over, where he's sitting with Jerry and Nabila- he thinks he'd be able to cut his own damned food. 

Paul catches on right away, dragging his plate over to cut the meat into manageable pieces. It's absolutely mortifying, up until Paul catches his eye and the face that he's making. As long as Paul's handling this, nobody's noticing that Daryl's plate's coming back with about half of Paul's meat as well.

For all that his family used to subsist on it, he hasn't had venison in years, and it's richer, less gamey than he'd been expecting. For a while, he just focuses on eating _decent food_ for the first time in ages. As Ezekiel describes plans for the field expansion on the west side of the settlement, he manages to nudge some potatoes and beans onto Paul's plate- he can probably manage all that just fine- but when he looks up, Carol's smirking across the table at him.

For the most part, he just lets the conversation wash over him. But then he'll shift and realize his leg's touchin' Paul's, and have to decide whether to shift away or just leave it, or pretend he doesn't notice it at all. Or he'll catch the bitterness that Paul's tryin' to cover as he fills Ezekiel in on Negan, the Council, Spencer and all of it- in a lot more detail than Daryl would've guessed. Or he'll catch Carol looking across at them and just lock onto what an ass he'd made of himself in the yard earlier today. 

Not that he doesn't appreciate all of it- it beats the hell out of not finding him in the first place. He just don't know what to do with it. 

Eventually and predictably, from the fields to the walls and then out past them, the conversation shifts to the Kingdom's more immediate needs.

"So have you reached a decision about the cache?" Paul asks Ezekiel. 

"It's been locked, and we've got drone surveillance..." Carol begins, glancing at Ezekiel.

"I'd rather we fill the entire thing with concrete and be done with it, to be honest. The drone only holds a four hour charge as it is." He shoots Daryl a solemn look. "More immediately, though, we all need to focus on recovering our dead."

For some reason, this strikes Daryl as odd. "So why haven't you?"

Carol shrugs at him. "We don't know what we're walking back into."

"More zombies?"

"Or more of your compatriots, lying in wait."

Shit, if that's the big concern, they could've asked him hours ago. Yesterday, even. "Not sure there are any." He thinks he should probably feel one way other about that. Truth is, he's barely spared them a thought since he'd arrived. "You've got Joe and Dan in holding, right? There were only five of us."

"The two we have aren't talking, so we've been unable to determine the best way forward."

"You gonna execute them?"

"Of course not," Ezekiel says, nearly rolling his eyes. "But if they're to be released, it would help if we knew what kind of threat they'd pose in the immediate and distant future. What can you tell us about them?"

"They're assholes." Which is probably fairly obvious. "They got a code, though. And Joe, he's in charge, used to be Techniki. They do reclamation- scouting and supply sourcing, that kinda shit- for a hospital east of Macon." 

At this, Ezekiel and Carol exchange a look. "So they're not just a gang, then."

He shrugs. "I don't know. Act like it, a lot of the time. We were tracking people they called the Wolves- they killed a few more of ours a few days back and came up this way. Joe wanted to check their weapons cache, that's when we found you. Never had line of sight on 'em, didn't know you all weren't them until it was already goin' to hell."

"Fair enough." Ezekiel glances across the room to where Dianne is sitting, talking animatedly with a group of people Daryl hasn't met. "Frankly, I'd like them gone with as little fuss and further disruption as possible. If we released them, would they just _go_ , peacefully?"

"I think so?" Honestly, Daryl has no idea. Dan's a fuckin' moron, and Joe seems the type to carry a grudge. Dan'll follow Joe without question, but Joe's too damned smart not to have questions of his own. So Daryl doesn't really know just why it is that the next words out of his mouth are, "I think I could work something out, though."

\--- 

It happens, quicker than he's expecting. Soon as they're all finished eating, and someone at the end of the mess hall is shoutin' over the crowd about play rehearsals, the four of them head towards the stairs. They go up, not down, which is a bit of a surprise, until they get to the top floor. 

On the landing, trying to catch his breath, they file past the guard and up to the metal bars that have been fitted into the door frame. 

Paul flanks his left side, but Carol and Ezekiel hang back, still close enough to listen. Apparently they'd meant in when they'd suggested he do all the talking. 

The floral wallpaper is a bit strange, though, considering the circumstances. The window at the far side of the room looks back on nothing but the wall outside, but Joe's starin' out at it all the same. Dan's sitting on the chair in the corner, not bothering with the pretense.

"Hey." It had seemed like an easy thing, coming up here and sorting out the terms of their release, but now that he's standing here, on the free side of the bars with his arm in a sling, he ain't sure where to start. 

"Well, y'ain't dead. I reckon it's a good sign, people keepin' their word and all." Joe turns around, glances past him. Bowing sardonically at Carol and Ezekiel, his eyes land on Paul. "This the guy you went to _all that_ trouble for, eh?"

"Joe, Dan, this is Paul."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance." His grin is bone dry, like he's thinkin' of sayin' something else. "I'd introduce the others, but you killed 'em already."

"You shot first," Paul points out; in his periphery, Daryl sees Dan standing up, ready to take the bait.

"That we did." Joe says, smirking back at Daryl. "This mean you'll be joining us in here?"

"Hopin' to get you out." Daryl says, half expecting Ezekiel to think better of this whole thing. "Told 'em what it looked like from our end, and they ain't thirsting for blood. Just wanted us to confirm that there ain't nobody out there lookin' to retaliate."

"You know damned well we ain't in any position to." For the first time, he addresses the people who actually have any kind of authority around here. "I assume you've taken control of the cache."

"We have," Carol says, though from the impression Daryl'd gotten over dinner, control is maybe overstating it. Not that he's about to dispute it. 

"Given time and continued peaceful relations with your people going forward," Ezekiel elaborates, "we'd be willing to turn it over, provided you secured it someplace far removed from our borders."

"Well that is a noble future, isn't it?" Joe glances between him and Daryl. "So tell me, Dixon. What are the terms of our immediate release?"

"You get back on the road, head back to the hospital without causing any problems on your way out."

Joe's skeptical. "That's it?"

It had been, but now that he's said it- the one piece he'd known he'd come up here to see, Daryl can see his point. Were their positions reversed, it sounds too good to be true. 

Ain't nothing that comes for free, so he adds a price. 

"And you hook 'em up with a truckload from the Amedzon cache."

Joe doesn't even blink before he nods- only accidentally acknowledging the quickest thinking Daryl's done in his entire life. But hell, when it comes down to it, it's exactly the kind of leverage Joe's probably considered anyway.

"Look," Daryl says, before anyone can say anything that'll complicate shit. "It was a misunderstanding, both sides took losses. But these people, they've got no beef with the hospital, and you know damned well there's enough to go 'round."

"Peaceful relations have been based on less," Paul supplies, helpfully, easing into the story like he'd known about it in advance. 

"That they have been," says Joe, glancing over at Dan, who's blinking vacantly at dust motes in the air. "All right. How would we go about it?"

"We all have dead to bury," Ezekiel says. "So we shall see to that as a group, first thing in the morning."

"An escort will go with you to the vicinity of your meds cache," Carol says, and it's amazing, how easily everyone just slips into the role of sounding like they're twice as prepared for this as they are. "One of you will wait with the escort while the other procures the required supplies."

"Upon their delivery," Ezekiel continues, "we will give you the radio ID codes to use when your people are prepared to establish more regular diplomatic relations."

"So we're just going to leave the whole 'try anything and have our heads blown off' as subtext, eh?"

"One would have thought it would go without saying," Carol's laugh ain't the easy, content, out-in-the-sunshine one from earlier, not by a long shot. "But thanks for being thorough."

\--- 

_Monday, 10/21/2149, 01:46_

The doze he'd managed to slip into hadn't been restful, but it had been enough to put an uncomfortable crick in his neck. Rolling it out as best he can, Paul leans against the window frame, blearily following night watchman's path along the top of the wall. Apart from the dim light in the guard tower, there's nothing competing with the stars up above. 

So he sees it, right away, when the light from an opening door briefly paints the yard in stark enough relief to make out every single blade of grass. Daryl steps out of the medical trailer, moving stiff and slow as he begins to pace. 

There are voices talking in one of the rooms down the hall, but the squeaking of every door and floorboard under his clomping boots is comparatively deafening as Paul slips out of his room and heads down the main staircase to the front entrance.

Daryl's on a return circuit; Paul's caught up with him before he's made it back to the trailer. 

"Hey," he says, taking the loose fitting pants that end above the ankles of his bare feet, and the blanket Daryl's got over his shoulders. "You supposed to be up and about?"

The lightyears-away-from-sleep tension with which he's holding himself doesn't abate, but Daryl grins, tiredly. "You gonna turn me in?"

"Just figured I'd see if you were up for company."

Daryl's shrug doesn't look right- given the damage, it's probably a question of whether or not it's ever going to, any time soon. "C'mon. Round back." He starts picking his way around the side of the trailer. Apparently, shoes hadn't been worth the effort. "There're tables and shit."

The settlement, Paul realizes every so often, is larger than it seems; there's a solid thirty feet between the back of the trailer, hemmed in on both sides by windowless trailers, unidentifiable equipment leaning here and there against the walls. It reminds him, a bit, of the work yard out behind Alexandria. 

"When'd you find this?"

"Through the window." The blanket falls open as Daryl sits down; he's got his fingers hooked in the stretched-out collar of the shirt he's wearing underneath. "Got sick of tryin' to sleep."

"How's the pain?"

"More annoying than earth shattering. Just took some stuff, waitin' for it to kick in. What're you doin' up?"

"Woke up, got claustrophobic." 

Daryl laughs through his nose.

"What?"

"So you finally got used to it, huh?"

"What?"

"The sky. Bein' outside."

The moment he says it, the _awareness_ creeps up his spine, but one breath is enough to dissipate it. "Compared to the ancient room they put me up in, yeah, I guess."

It's nice like this, familiar. Just them and the stars and the quiet, at least until the guard takes another pass overhead. He sits down on the bench next to Daryl, close enough that he can just his presence. Even with as secluded as they are, they probably shouldn't be too loud. 

"Good work earlier, with Joe."

Daryl makes a non-committal noise in his throat. 

"I'm serious. The medical supplies was a bit of a surprise."

"Joe's the kind that would expect some kind of price," he shrugs. "Saw Carson doin' inventory earlier." He rolls his neck. "Wasn't like I was the only one improvising."

"Fair enough. About time something came together easily for once."

"Yeah."

"So... how'd you fall in with them, anyway?" That's not a big enough question for what he's trying to ask. "What happened?"

That one's maybe _too_ big, but Daryl takes a breath, shifting his blanket back up, and answers anyway.

"Since the attack?"

"Yeah."

"We buried the dead and took off. Thought you were one of them, for a minute there." Daryl exhales sharply through his nose. "Convoy took us to this safe zone hospital to get patched up before we went on to DC- Atlanta got scrubbed- but then this weird crew shows up at the hospital- all in black, talkin' weird-"

Paul sits up. "Was one of them named Jadis?"

Daryl thinks for a minute. "Think so. Had a picture of you, said she'd found you back by the landing site."

"She _drew_ me?"

"Yeah," Daryl says, looking for a moment like there's something else he's going to add, but he falls silent.

"Well, _that's_ creepy."

"It's fucked, up, is what it is," he snorts. "Could've at least brought you along to the hospital or something. Least they Creepy or not, she's half the reason I found you. The other half bein' Joe and them. You know he used to be Techniki?"

"Seriously?"

"Years back, now. He worked with my brother. Should ask Carol if he's ringing any bells."

"Small universe."

"Yeah... Anyway, they were headin' this way, Sasha and Dwight seemed to have everything under control, so I hitched a ride, said we'd catch up with them later. The rest you know. "

"I don't know why you thought we were Wolves."

Daryl frowns. "They killed two of ours a few days ago. Didn't see it happen, though."

"I think I might've." He's distracted, suddenly and completely, at the sight of his breath fogging up for the first time in his life. "I might've caught, the aftermath, at least. Down by a rest stop on the road?"

"Yeah."

"I ran into them, then _away_ from them. And thankfully onto Carol and Jerry's radar."

" _Small universe_."

"Guess so," Paul laughs. "That's not the weirdest one, though."

"What's that?"

"Before that all happened-" a whole _ten days ago_ , "I was sitting in a car and talking with Dr. Jenner." At Daryl's confused look, he explains. "The guy who was heading up the rubidium research project? NATOPS is looking for him, he was on the run heading out west."

"You're shittin' me."

"I'm serious... which is why I need you to hear me out, because I think our part of the mission might've changed. You said that the others are okay, right?"

"Sasha's okay, so's Carl. Dwight's hearing was fucked up, but he was getting ready to head on with the convoy when I left." He shakes his head. "If they haven't made it to DC, they should be there soon. Probably be meeting with NATOPS before we're halfway there."

Paul takes a breath, buying a few seconds before bringing it up a few days ahead of schedule. "What if we went west instead?" 

He feels like a traitor just saying it. Daryl's skeptical look is only making it worse. "What d'you mean?"

"Just hear me out, okay?" This sucks. It's so peaceful here, and he just wants to enjoy it. Take a day or two to just enjoy the fact that Daryl's here, that he's _alive_ and that the two of them get to even sit around talking like this. Instead, once again, they're having to talk through problems that are too big for either of them. "Long story short, it looks Jenner's working on a cure for the whole dead people walking thing. Atlanta was neutral territory, but NATOPS is pulling some shit. Getting in the way of actually solving the problem in favor of cementing their authority." 

" _If_ it's even a cure he's workin' on. 'Cause it didn't really look like that back up on the ship."

"I thought about that, too. But the way he was talking about it, I'm thinking we were only seeing part of the picture. And talking with Ezekiel, it really does seem like the SA has more capabilities than they're letting on- enough to make and distribute a cure, at the very least, which is more than NATOPS seems to have. He seemed to think it would be worth our while, heading over there."

Daryl frowns, and it takes him a moment to work up to his words. "Thought we came down here to see about dealin' with the colony's problems, not Earth's." He's not being sharp about it, but the critique's there, all the same. "An' I don't see how' fuckin' off to the SA would do neither." 

"I know. But seriously. The more I'm seeing, out here, the less certain I am that NATOPS is the only side we need to be talking to." 

Daryl's lost in thought for a long while; Paul's so busy building up his arguments that he almost misses his reply. 

"Dunno that you're wrong," he says, biting at a hangnail. "Seen more people tryin' to sort shit out for themselves than I'm seein' uniforms takin' care of anything. Way Joe an' them are talkin' about it, there ain't that much different. Both sides are assholes."

"Uh-huh. But it doesn't mean we shouldn't think about hedging our bets. And Sasha's got NATOPS covered."

"Okay, but. We go chasin' down this rabbit hole, go to the SA, how do we know that NATOPS won't come back at us?"

_Us_ , he means, is Carl, Sasha and Dwight. Possibly the entire colony. 

"King Ezekiel's only willing to give us any more details on condition of absolute secrecy- no contact with NATOPS, Sasha included. He didn't even want me talking to you where anyone _here_ could overhear."

Daryl reaches up to prod at his shoulder through the bandages. "Carol say anything?"

"Not yet. Only found out about this much of it this afternoon, haven't had the chance." 

He tries not to deflate too much, he _gets_ it. A second opinion couldn't hurt, and Carol's clearly counts for a lot with him. And clearly, his own persuasive capabilities aren't quite what they should be, never mind the fact that this isn't the kind of thing to be unexpectedly sprung on someone in the middle of the night.

"Hey." Daryl nudges him with his uninjured shoulder. "You don't gotta..."

"Don't gotta what?"

"Look like that. I just gotta think on it some, is all. Too fried right now."

"Fair enough." He rubs his hands together, glancing up to watch the guard walk by up above. "It's beyond late. You need to be heading in?"

\--- 

He probably should be, but he's too tired to move, too almost-comfortable. The pain's still there, and the tingling in his arm, and the edge of the table is too sharp against his back, but he'll take it, long as it means Paul's still right here, shoulder to shoulder with him. 

"Ain't in a rush. You?"

"At some point, but I'm good." His hands, pressed together between his knees, look gray and cold. Idiot came out here in nothing but the same thin shirt he'd been wearin' earlier.

"Shit, man. Get up a second."

Paul's on his feet in an instant, alarmed, but now there's room to shift the blanket around. It's awkward, only usin' the one arm, but Paul catches on, grabbing a corner like he's gonna try to help, soon as he's told how to.

"No sense freezin' your ass off," he says, when it becomes clear that he's not catching on. 

"I wasn't-" Paul starts, abandoning the argument almost immediately and sitting close as he wraps it over his shoulder. Joined from knee to shoulder like this, all cold shivering points of contact, Daryl laughs an _I told you so._

"Whatever," Paul's too close to see his face without making it obvious, but he can sense the smirk in his peripheral. "How did people even _live_ here. The climate's completely inhospitable to human life."

"Wait'll you see summer."

"Think we'll be here that long?"

"Winter, at least. Way things are going."

Another shiver- deliberate, this time, and Paul's snaking his arm around Daryl's back, edging closer. 

"Does it snow, here?"

"Yeah, some. Enough that getting around's probably gonna be a pain in the ass." 

"You mean compared to now?

At the irritated tone, Daryl glances over. Doesn't catch much more than his profile. "How'd you make it all the way here, anyway? Been meanin' to ask."

Paul sighs, gathering his thoughts as he straightens up. "After... well. I woke up on the ground next to a fire with no clothes on, and then it got weird."

\--- 

_Monday, 10/21/2149, 02:30_

"...and next thing I knew there was a monster leaping through the air, tearing his throat out." Paul lets out a back-arching yawn. "And that's how I met Shiva, Jerry and Carol."

"Holy shit." This whole time Daryl's been listening, he's been tryin' to sort out his reactions to Paul's narrative. It ain't jealousy, 'cause nobody would sign up for what he's been through, but there's a bone-deep awareness that he should've been there, had his back. Two and a half weeks had been a lifetime's worth of experience that he'd just simply _missed_.

Not for the first time, the sling is a noticeable irritation; he can't do any shit like hugging him without dropping the blanket or making it all awkward. _Fucking hell, I'm so glad you made it_ , he wants to say, but what comes out instead is "Remind me to go catch Shiva a deer or something."

"No shit, right?" Paul laughs tiredly, knocking his forehead against Daryl's shoulder. It must put his sightline on level with his collar, because he asks, "How's your hand doing, anyway?"

"Lost some feeling." He wriggles his fingers experimentally, hoping, not for the first time, to call bullshit on himself. "Might come back, might not."

Paul flinches, or shivers, or maybe it's just the spasm of exhausted muscles. It's got to be near two in the morning; they both should've turned in hours ago. "That's gotta be freaky," he says, voice just shy of apologetic.

Daryl shrugs, because he's right, it _is_ , but he wants another apology even less than he wants to think about it at all. Suddenly, he laughs. "Dunno, Fucked up Fingers Club has a nice ring to it."

"Long as you're in charge of recruitment," he drawls, eyes more closed than open. "I have no idea how we'd screen potential members."

"Good point." It's his turn to fight off another yawn as he rolls his shoulders, mustering the energy to start standing up. "Club's first order of business, putting a...whatsit. _Moratorium_ on the recruitment of new members. All in favor say aye." 

Paul gets to his feet and slips out of the blanket. Braced by the cold air, he seems to have woken up all over again. "Aye. Just you and me, then." He drapes the blanket back in place over Daryl's shoulders. "No running around and breaking hands behind each other's backs."

Daryl's skin goes hot, suddenly, but Paul, braced by the cold air, or maybe hurrying to escape it, is already picking his way back around the trailer. The pins and needles shooting down his legs make following more of an endeavor than Daryl would like, but when he reaches the front stoop, Paul's already waiting there, holding the door half open. 

"You gonna make it in okay? Need anything?"

Now that his staggering's restored the circulation to his legs, all the other aches are reasserting themselves. Hopefully he hasn't pushed shit too far that the drugs he'd taken can't do any good, but he knows where the ice packs are, if it comes down to it. "I'm good." 

"All right, then, I'll leave you to it." He steps aside, the bedside lamp from inside throwing his tight grin into clear relief. "See you in the morning?" 

"Course." Edging past, there's a steadying grip on his arm that he don't really need, hanging on almost a little too long. 

But he's halfway to bed, door closed quietly behind him, before he even really notices it.


	30. Chapter 30

_Monday, 10/21/2149, 11:32_

There's sunlight streaming in through the open window, and music, too, drifting from somewhere. A waltz is playing as Paul goes to wash up; by the time he's out, hair dripping down into his collar, it's changed to an old techno piece he very nearly recognizes. 

The main floor is a scurry of activity- lunchtime already, he's shocked to realize. Dishes are clanking, people meandering back and forth, out with trays of food or back in with dirty dishes. There's no sign of Daryl as he joins the chow line, where he briefly entertains the idea of trying the chicken, then instead gathers up some shredded vegetables, coffee, cheese and bread. Following the crowd out through the foyer and down the steps, he realizes, for the first time, that he's probably fairly late. The yard is filled with people, gathered around tables or in circles on the ground as they enjoy the warm sunshine and drifting music. 

Carol and Ezekiel, deep in conversation at one of the tables in the shade of the solar panels, don't seem to be aware of the relaxed mood. They're hunched towards each other with grim looks on their faces, and any fleeting impulse Paul might've had to go say hello evaporates even before Carol's warning look- _Sorry, not now_ \- but she juts her chin towards the gate to Shiva's enclosure. 

There's another table, there, next to the tool shed, where Nabila's nodding her head to the music while Daryl talks with Jerry. Drawing near, he checks for any signs of Shiva and thankfully, finds none. 

Daryl's scratching his shoulder, eyes on the mess of screws, chips and cords Nabila's got spread out all over her tray, but he grins when he sees Paul. 

"'Bout time," he says, making room for him to sit down. "Thought we were gonna have to send someone in to get proof of life." 

Paul sets his tray down and nodding instead at Nabila and Jerry. "How goes it?"

Jerry swallows. "Good, good. Daryl's just been filling us in on what we can expect to see out there."

"Out there?" 

"Road south. We're heading out in a bit, soon as Dianne's finished triple checking the trucks."

It dawns on him, suddenly, that Daryl's the emissary, here, between the Kingdom and the Claimers, and more importantly, that keeping the peace means _leaving_ , again. "Who's all going?" His coffee's probably been getting cold for hours, now, but he slings it back anyway, lest he look too concerned. 

"The two of us, Dianne, Ali and Terry." Jerry confirms. 

Daryl's mouth is tight, watching Nabila pry apart whatever it is she's working on with a butter knife, oblivious to his worry. "Told Carol I'd help see them out and all, but that's about the extent of it."

"Good," he says, with enough weight to the word to heavily imply the hell he would've raised- with Dr. Carson to start, and failing that, with Carol- had the answer been otherwise. Ducking Daryl's questioning glance, he turns to Jerry. "What's the plan?" 

"We'll head out, take care of the burials first. Dianne's going to stay behind, secure the bunker. Then we're gonna head down to the warehouse, complete the deal. Should be back this evening."

"Everyone!" Ezekiel's voice suddenly booms across the yard. "It's starting, and we ask for quiet so that everyone may hear!"

Paul and Daryl shrug at each other while Nabila carefully packs up her components. Coffee in hand, they follow Jerry back towards the far side of the yard. 

It's only now, really, that it hits him. They've got music, here, and the means to listen to it, and the music's just cut out.

\--- 

There's already an excited crowd gathered 'round the radio, like Naibla'd said there would be, but it's enough that Daryl can't make out what's being said until a minute or so's gone past and people've finally started settling down. 

_"...the first in-person visit in well over a year now, but it's unexpectedness, happening several months after all communications frequencies fell silent, has captured the public's attention. Rumors abound, and one, indicating that the visitors arrived not on a interstellar cruiser, but on a light ship intended for short research excursions, has been confirmed by a NATOPS officer under the condition of anonymity, and verified by two relay stations currently shut down for review._

_On this matter and all others, however, the Communications Office is being predictably quiet, citing security as a concern. Multiple sources have confirmed, however, that the core group is comprised of a man, a woman, and a teenaged male._

_As expected, their approach has garnered much interest along the travelways. Convoyspotters are waiting at every intersection, cycling their drones in hopes of a glimpse of the group. And in Washington DC, they're literally rolling out the red carpet._

_NATOPS forward teams have cordoned off the approach east of the DMZ, bringing the street down to one lane in order to create room for onlookers to gather. The waystations and hostels are filled with crews from all over, ourselves included. The Security office requests that all filling the sidewalks, are expected to stay within a safe viewing distance, so as not to impede their safe and secure arrival at their final destination, believed by many to be Capitol Hill itself. And while there's been no direct comment as to the exact nature of security being deployed, residents of DC are reporting NATOPS forces establishing a firm perimeter along the route, and doubled personnel at all checkpoints._

_That's all we have for now, but we'll be repeating and updating on the threes as the story progresses. For now, this is Hashep Billington for Open Access Wirewatch, signing off."_

Some old jazz song starts playin', but it's buried under the noise of everyone in the yard talkin' all at once, before being cut off completely. The radio operator switches over to her headset, talking into the mic, her station ID nearly inaudible over the swarm of people lining up to make contact.

Daryl's too stunned to even move out of their way. 

Carl, Sasha and Dwight are alive. They've got eyes on 'em. People looking for them, maybe even looking _out_ for them. 

"Daryl, you hear that?"

Paul's hand- the one that isn't grabbing Daryl's right elbow- is clawing his hair up out of his face. He's grinning, total, utter _relief_. He ain't sure which of them starts laughing first. 

\--- 

_Monday, 10/21/2149, 12:32_

"This is bullshit." Daryl grinds his heel into the antique carpet as he turns to glare out the far window, the gardens tolerating it better than anyone in here would. 

Carol catches his eye from her spot by Ezekiel's desk, frowning like she's about to say something, but Paul shakes his head. The argument's probably inevitable. It feels like it's been brewing for hours, though they've only been up here for about five minutes. Still, better for everyone if they only have it out just the once. 

From Paul's vantage point at his own window, he's got eyes on the front gate, where the trucks are finally starting to depart. Jerry, Nabila and Joe are riding in the first, Dan and the others in the second. 

There hadn't been much by way of goodbyes that Paul'd heard between the cell and the gate. Daryl's distracted _take care of yourselves_ had been exchanged for Joe's equally halfassed _catch you on the flip side_ , and that had been it. Duty thus discharged, Daryl'd stalked off back to the medical trailer without another word to anyone. 

Well, apart from the muttered "got to check in with Carson, I'll be up in a minute," offered to Carol on his way past. Paul hadn't seen the doctor around, so it could've been the truth. And it doesn't matter, anyway, as Daryl had come up to join them under their own steam. 

"Looks like they're finally on their way," Paul announces, watching the heavy gate doors being eased back into place. 

"That's good," Carol nods, clearly as eager as him to chip away at the moody silence that's taken over the room. But there's a deliberate look on her face as she turns towards Daryl. "You hardly said two words to them, you know."

Paul cringes, watching Daryl tense, but he's exhaling as he turns around, and if the expression on his face isn't pleased, he seems to be making an effort. 

"That's the way of it down here though, yeah? Long fuckin' speeches to assholes you ain't ever gonna see again, no word at all to your own crew."

_And here we go_. Paul's about to jump in to smooth out what feathers he can, when he's interrupted by the creaking steps in the hallway. A moment later, Ezekiel's finally joining them, pulling the heavy door closed behind him. 

"Apologies for the delay," he says, speaking with an easiness deliberate enough that it's clear he knows _exactly_ what he's walking into. Crossing over to the desk, he perches on the corner, rather than taking the chair behind it. "As will happen with these things, there were some last minute details that needed ironing out. But our reluctant guests are now most eagerly on their way." Tamping down on a wry grin, he looks between the three of them. "I take it you've gotten started?"

"Hardly," Carol says, archly. Which isn't exactly warranted, given the fact that she's probably the one Daryl's least displeased with, right now. Then again, if she hadn't said it, Paul might've had to. 

Either way, it propels Daryl to the middle of the room, where he stands arms crossed, not taking the bait. He looks like he's standing in front of a firing squad, wanting nothing more than for them to just _get on with it, already_. 

"All right, then." Realizing that whatever his hopes, the mood of the room is what it is, Ezekiel gets up, and sits himself down at his desk. He's not so invested in the power move as to rock back in the chair, though, which Paul can't help noting. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on his desktop. 

"I understand your frustration," he tells Daryl. "And please know that it was not my intention to just blithely block communications with your people. But the fact remains that we are at a precarious point, and there is a decision to be made before settling on a course of action."

"Yeah?" Daryl's gruffness is as deliberate as Ezekiel's ease. "And what's that?"

"We talked about it last night," Paul points out, irritated that the posturing's already getting this out of hand, and falling, he realizes belatedly, right into their same pattern. 

"And I _said_ I'd think about it," Daryl swivels his head to roll his eyes at him. "Ain't agreed to shit, yet."

And that's true. And _that's_ annoying. "Look," he says, trying to at least _manage_ the impending derailment that's been barreling down on them since Ezekiel had- politely- reminded them that contacting Sasha wouldn't be possible- maybe not today, maybe not ever. "I know I was rambling, when we talked about it-"

"Yeah. Either we're lookin' at catchin' up with our people, help them beat a dead horse with NATOPS, or we go on a wild goose chase a thousand miles in the wrong direction on the chance that a turncoat doctor's got some better line on anything at fucking _all_."

Daryl's succinct summary throws him, but he's quick to recover. "Okay, yes, that's true. But it was all _hypothetical_ , then."

"Hypothetical ain't the problem. The problem's that we ain't got nothin' but his say so." Grimacing- surprisingly- he swivels his head towards Ezekiel. "No offense, your highness."

"None taken," Ezekiel bows his head, ignoring, the insolent tone, at least for the time being. "And your concern is a valid one." With a nod at Paul, he continues. "I had good reason for not going into greater detail when you and I last spoke. With this morning's transmissions, it's become apparent our situation is more precarious than I'd thought. It is for that reason- and that alone- that we find it necessary to learn your plans and intentions before offering aid in service of either."

"Precarious how?" Daryl asks, shooting Paul a look that he doesn't quite catch.

"Our sources have confirmed that NATOPS is not as far from discovering the true extent of the SA's abilities as we'd like. When that happens, their first instinct will be to attack- that's all they can _do_ , anymore."

"Okay, but everyone knows they're a threat," Daryl shakes his head. "For _years_. Ain't like NATOPS suddenly started believing otherwise."

"That's exactly the _point_." Carol interjects, peeling herself away from the wall to sit on the edge of the desk. "Which is why this is the kind of thing that, no joke, gets people _killed_." Sighing, she takes a few steps towards Daryl, like she's debating whether or not to put herself in between him and Ezekiel. "Look, Daryl. This is me, yeah? I'm not holding out on you for fun, here. If you're in, you're in. If you're not, your knowledge would make you a liability."

Paul's not exactly certain when he, too, moved to stand at Daryl's side, but when Ezekiel and Carol look expectantly between the two of them, their eyes don't have to traverse as wide a swath as they'd had to a few minutes ago. Paul's not even sure if it was solidarity that pushed him to move, or the need to draw some of the heat. 

"So, toward that end," Ezekiel's grin is a bit forced, but he's still trying. "Here are the choices you have before you. One, if you feel that your comrades have the efforts with NATOPS well in hand, you could choose to see what the SA has to offer. We can provide information, vehicles and supplies should you wish to go, but yes. Security concerns do dictate that we disallow any radio contact with your crew or any NATOPS personnel." He waits for any sign that they understand; Paul's not sure that he receives one before he continues. "If you would instead prefer to join your people in persuading NATOPS to render aid to Colony One, we will provide vehicles, supplies, relay frequencies and ID's to contact them. Do those terms make sense?"

"They are," Paul agrees, before Daryl decides otherwise. "If I may, though. You're saying that NATOPS currently isn't good for much besides warfare. Without getting into details, is it your impression that the SA is of the same mindset?"

Ezekiel and Carol share a look that quickly becomes a conversation. It's really something, watching the two of them; when he glances at Daryl, who's staring dead-eyed at the painting on the wall above the desk, he can't help envying them.

"Neither side is without their shortcomings," Ezekiel eventually confirms. "And there are no saints on Earth."

"But that said," Carol rocks her head to the side, "Things are tricky. We just need to be sure that you're going to try not to make them worse, because we don't all have the luxury of escaping to another planet when it's all said and done. If you want to get help for the colony, you need consider talking to the SA. If we didn't- if _I_ didn't think it could be worthwhile, the offer wouldn't be on the table."

Ezekiel scratches at his chin. "In the spirit of full transparency, you should know that regardless of which option you choose, your communications will be monitored via the relay. Any mishandling of sensitive information can easily be disavowed and your access revoked." 

"Ain't _been_ any information yet, yet," Daryl mutters. Paul's close enough to elbow him quiet, but he holds back. In this, at least, he's not entirely wrong. 

"Before we get into it, there _is_ a third option," Ezekiel continues, though he sounds resigned to be offering it, probably thanks to Daryl. "You are also most welcome to join us here on a more permanent basis, as we believe you would be valuable additions to our community, and we can offer the same invitation to your crew should the need arise in the future. If this is the path you choose, there would be no barriers to regular and ongoing communication with your people in the meantime, or your choosing to join them at a later date."

Paul waits, for a reaction, but Daryl's either run out of steam or he's trying not to explode. With a nod that's more confident than he feels, he asks, "can we have a few minutes to talk it over??

"You may have the full day." Ezekiel stands up, nodding Carol towards the door. "You have the run of the office, but if you're more comfortable elsewhere, I would just ask for discretion so that others may not become agitated by what they might overhear. Loose lips sink ships, and all that."

"Well," Carol quirks her brow at Pauls as she passes by, "not if we can avoid it."   
\--- 

_Monday, 10/21/2149, 12:58_

Paul's silent as they head down the stairs and out through the overdone entryway, but the instant they're stepping back into fresh air and sunlight, he jumps right into it, like he can't wait another second. Or, given the tone of his voice, like he's just tryin' to get it over with. "So, what do you think?"

Daryl needs some water, he needs a minute or an hour to just fucking _think_ without anyone yammering at him about how things are boiling down to one of three done deals. But apparently, it's not to be. Instead, he's veering towards the wall past the garden, were there ain't so many people likely to overhear. 

The shade-cooled wood is a relief through the bandages, though he's careful not to press too hard. Just to the point where the constant soreness edges up to give him something to focus on that ain't the scowl on Paul's face. 

"I know things aren't rolling out exactly as we want," he tells Daryl, standing just outside of the wall's shadow. "But what _was_ that, in there?"

"What was what?"

"You needling them the whole time." 

_Better than just playing along like their bullshit smelled like roses_. The scoff comes out without him meanin' to do it, nut he lets it ride. " _Someone_ had to do the talking."

"Why?" Paul meets his sarcasm with a smirk. "And you were doing a such a great job of it."

"If it's so easy, you could've cut in any time."

"And you could've listened a little more patiently," Paul exhales sharply, dropping the pretense. "And what the hell? You think I think all this is easy?"

"Don't know _what_ you think, you barely said anything at all."

"Yeah? And what was I supposed to say?"

This much honesty, he realizes, was a mistake. Now _Paul's_ pissed, too. "I dunno, you're the diplomat, yeah? Could've at least gotten to some useful questions."

"For what answers? They said they can't tell us anything yet, well. It is what it is. Not ideal, but that's the deal." Clearly agitated, Paul takes a breath, clearly trying to calm himself down. "Seriously. Any other circumstances, I would've. I would've been a _huge_ pain in the ass, but up there just now, it wasn't necessary."

This gives him pause. "Why not?"

"Like for one, well, Carol's your friend, right? I figure if anyone was going to notice any reason we shouldn't be trusting them, it would be you. Did you see any?"

"No." Daryl takes a breath, releases it, but the slowly dawning realization that he might've been talking out of his ass doesn't dissipate. What the hell is he even doing, here? "Shit. All right. That's for one, what else?"

Paul, like he's sensing that they're stepping back onto safer ground, manages a weak grin. "Not quite worst-case scenario, offers get taken off the table because we annoy them too much."

"You think that'd happen?"

"I actually don't know," Paul admits. "Thoughts?"

Daryl bites back on something sarcastic, makes himself think about it. "Think Carol would warn us off bein' dumbasses 'fore it got to that point." This, at least, gets a laugh, which he's suddenly _incredibly_ grateful to hear. But now he's curious. "What's the actual worst case?"

"That all offers and aid are rescinded and we're thrown out of here on our asses." He comes just short of prodding at Daryl's arm, not meeting his eye. "You're still on antibiotics."

"I'm fine."

"I know, just... well, you asked." Paul shakes his head, squinting across the garden. "All things considered, we've had _worse_ worst cases, right? At least we're not dying in the vacuum of space."

He doesn't look certain of it, though, and Daryl wonders how much Paul's regretting even starting this conversation. "Yeah. And, uh. Sorry. Not tryin' to be a dick, here. It's just..."

Paul's answering grin is pointedly bitter enough that somehow, it goes all the way around to be reassuring. "Fallout from the crushing disappointment of hearing that our friends are _probably_ okay, but not being able to confirm it ourselves?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah." Paul's shoulder brushes his uninjured one as he takes up the spot next to him on the wall, then sinks down to sit. "It made more sense when it wasn't this real, you know?"

On that, at least, they can agree, and Daryl joins him- not so gracefully- on the ground. It's mostly gravel, this close to the wall, but he can stretch his feet out onto actual grass, and he ain't sure when the novelty is gonna wear off. Out past the garden, there are maybe a dozen people scattered around the yard, working, talking, or just enjoying the sun. The drill press in the shop starts up again. 

"So what do you make of all of this?"

"I don't know... I'll admit, I'm curious about the whole... _you know_. But..."

"But it weren't the plan, and our people ain't in on it."

"Exactly." Paul picks up a small jagged piece of rock, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger for a minute, frowning as he sorts his thoughts. "Okay," he says, eventually, turning to look at him. "Let's say, plan A. we catch up with them. What's the best case scenario?"

"I dunno."

Paul's he's already nodding like the question was rhetorical, anyway. "They've already laid most of the groundwork, we roll in, join them, and talk NATOPS into resuming support."

All right. "So what's the worst case scenario?"

"We roll up, nobody's listening to anyone, and NATOPS, stretched too thin as it is, can't render aid anyway. We waste time, have to start over from scratch, and probably can't count on the Kingdom's help the second time around." He shakes his head, as if to dispel the notion. "Plan B, what's the best case?"

He thinks he gets the rules of this game, now. "We get out there, find, I dunno, some shit that'll save the day that'll make up for the fact that NATOPS can't or won't do shit. So, I guess, a cure for dead people walking and a ship ready to go." Daryl scratches at the point on his hand where sensation gives way to numb nothing; guessin' at this ain't as easy as he'd thought. So he turns it around. "Worst case?"

It don't even take Paul a second to think. "We get out there, find nothing... and hear that NATOPS is a bust, too. But somehow, they still have their shit together enough to find out about where we are, what we're doing, and who we're talking to, and they brand us all traitors, Sasha and everyone included." He drags his hand down over his face, tugging at his beard, and blinks at Daryl. "You thinking at all about the third option?"

"Sticking around here? Course not." Which isn't entirely true. It's nice, here. Calm. And for all of Ezekiel's royal trappings, there ain't as much bullshit as there could be. And there ain't no ignoring the fact that Carol seems happier here than anywhere else. "You?" 

His hands drop to his knees, and he shakes his head. For a few minutes, he blankly watches Henry leading some of the younger kids on a mad chase across the yard. "All right, so. Join the others, or strike out on our own. What do you want to do?"

He drags his knee up, shifts to alleviate the pressure on his back. "I want to make sure Carl and them're all right." 

"Me too." Paul rocks his head back against the wall too heavily; it's so massive it barely makes a sound, but he rolls his eyes and grins when he looks to check on him. Even tired and stressed out, he can manage that much, and Daryl has to look away before it can get weird. And it takes another minute to get his brain back on track. 

"Thing is," he trails off, the words hanging there before he even realizes he's said 'em. Paul's eyebrows are raised, and he's listening, but the thoughts aren't lined up yet. 

"What?"

"When I left, came out looking for you, it wasn't a done deal that we'd both be making it back. It was the plan, but if it came down to it..." He frowns, out of some instinct to stop himself from saying things that'll make shit worse. "Sasha knows they might have to pull it off without either of us. Think they can handle it?"

"I dunno." Paul closes his eyes for a moment, thinking about it. "I've been too busy worrying that they'd _have_ to."

Reluctantly, Daryl forces himself to push, just a little more. "The fact that people're throwing them a damned parade's got to be a good thing, right?" Even suggesting it, alluding to it this much, feels like a betrayal. But Paul doesn't call him on it. 

"From what the radio said, it seems people will want to hear them out, so that should get them through the door. Once they're at the table, I think Sasha could do a great job of it. But what that looks like? I don't know. I mean, no launch sites, a zombie outbreak on top of a war." He gestures vaguely at the garden and the ramshackle buildings piled up inside the walls. "Everyone down here just scraping by as it is."

"You think the SA's any better?"

"Not better," Paul shakes his head, eyes locked on the front steps of the house, where Carol's stripping down a rifle. "And probably not different. But the king and queen seem to think otherwise."

There's a tone in his voice that has Daryl needing to ask. "You trust her?"

"Do you?"

"Yeah."

"Me too." 

Daryl bites his chapped lip for a minute before just _asking_. "But is that because you _actually_ trust her, or 'cause I'm sayin I do?"

"Little of both," he deadpans, before his face splits into a weary grin. "And maybe because I'm a little scared to see what would happen if I didn't."

Daryl snorts. "You serious?"

"I'm saying that back home, she'd have Negan quaking in his boots." Paul pulls his hair back, grabbing it into a ponytail and letting it fall. "But you know her better. So I guess my question there is, does she strike you as any kind of, I don't know, zealot?"

"Carol? Nah. Mean, she's intense. And, alright, that's kind of new. But she ain't never been one to throw someone else on a landmine." 

There'd been times, honestly, when he'd been more concerned that she'd jump on one herself. But that had been before. Now she's a queen, even if it is a title that she merely tolerates. "She's kind of like Sasha or Connor." _Or Rick._ "Don't know the king any more than you do, but yeah. Neither of them are Negan."

"I don't know," Paul pulls a dubious face, enough of one that Daryl kind of wants to ask why it's there. "Think she can be terrifying if she wants to be."

Dragging his thumb across the side his ring finger, he only notes half the sensation he still thinks he should. "Probably a good thing that she's on our side, then, huh?" 

"I mean, I'm pretty sure she's on her _people's_ , but yeah." Paul shrugs. 

And he's probably right, and for a moment, it's an uncomfortable notion, but it passes. The sunshine, the breeze, and the buzzing of insects feels like a wall blocking off the noise of the shop and the kids playing tag in the yard. It strikes him, suddenly, how _nice_ it is, here. It's so damned peaceful that it's almost possible to imagine that the rifle Carol's cleaning on the house's front steps is merely for hunting. 

_Almost_. Because the second he thinks it, he can see it happening. The dead, clamoring at the wall from all sides, snarling jaws snapping, finding a gap in the wall and pouring through. 

"This _is_ the least terrifying place I've seen on the entire planet," Paul says, suddenly reading his mind but looking at him like he needs him to hear him out. "I mean, even with everything on the other side of the walls, it's, I don't know, settled. Calm. Like they're really trying to build something, here, you know? I can't see them suggesting that we go chase down some a place that was just, I don't know, some overrun enemy enclave, or whatever." He screws up his face, so apparently Daryl's the only one not quite following. "If plan B wasn't such a secret, you know, I'd already have said yes for the both of us. Zombies or no."

Daryl thinks he ought to bristle at the presumption- and he does, for a second- but it's a vague notion, quickly fading. Really, it's nothing more than an awareness that it's something he could do and might've done- not something that he _needs_ to do. And anyway, Paul's shifting his expression back to neutral: eyes forward, fidgeting hands clasped still on raised knees, eyebrows raised like he's waiting for something. His mouth, Daryl's pretty sure, is shut tight, but between the beard and the angle, it's hard to find any kind of tell. 

Daryl ain't the kind of stupid that he can't see that they've been tilting towards the bigger unknown ever since they started talking. But that's been the case ever since they set foot on the RV, and after a few dozen light years, adding zombies to the mix doesn't seem like the deal breaker it maybe ought to be. 

He _is_ , however, the kind of stupid that gets distracted starin' at the corner of Paul's mouth, that he totally misses his words. 

"Huh?"

Nearly laughing, Paul's gaze slides back towards the rows of beans. "I asked, what do you think we should do?"

And shit. He'd probably give him the world- such as it is- if Paul asked. And all they're trying to settle on here is which direction to go first.


	31. Chapter 31

_Monday, 10/21/2149, 19:27_

Paul's been careful about it, but he's been keeping an eye on Daryl all afternoon, looking for any indication that he's having second thoughts, that he's regretting it, that he's realized some new kink in the works that Paul's missed. But so far, there's nothing. 

After swinging through the med trailer so Carson could poke and prod at Daryl's still numb hand and shove more antibiotics into him, Carol'd caught up with them, steering them out towards the water tower. There, they'd spent the remainder of the afternoon sitting on a bench helping Sheila and Mason troubleshoot the water system's filtration unit.

Knowing more in theory than in practice, there hadn't been much for Paul himself to contribute; instead he'd mostly just watched Daryl offer questions, suggestions and advice like he'd been working with this system for years. Mason - tall, muscular, and tattooed- had been hanging on Daryl's every word, while Shiela, elbow-deep in degreaser, had kept staring at him like he'd hung the sun. 

Daryl hadn't noticed, but he'd slid into the proceedings more easily than Paul's seen him be with anyone, and it's been getting harder and harder to ignore what that could mean. 

Maybe that third option- doing nothing- wouldn't be the worst one. Daryl could chip in, here, he could fit in. He's got at least one friend here, and shows every sign of being on the verge of having more. His expertise won't be going to waste. And he could probably use some more time for his arm to heal up, which he wouldn't get on the road-

"Earth to Paul, you good?"

He shakes himself out of his reverie; Sheila and Mason are already putting their tools away. 

"Said, dinner bell's ringing. You hungry?" 

"I could eat," he says, standing up with more energy than he's feeling, his back creaking after hours spent on the hard wooden bench. It's not until they step out from under the overhang that he realizes it's started to rain.

Once they've made it halfway, but are still twenty feet shy of the rest of the crowd heading in towards the chow line, he finally makes himself ask. "Still good with the plan?"

Daryl's face slips, for a second, his mouth a grim line. "It ain't perfect, but it's better than nothing." More assuredly, he nods. "Let's tell 'em."

\---

They get their food- salad, bread, and eggs- and, after an unspoken agreement, beer from one of the kegs set up in the corner. Mostly because that's where Ezekiel's chatting with Jerry and Dr. Carson.

"-but nothing weird. Did come across an older woman who was in rough shape. Picked her up, they're taking her along to the hospital," Jerry's saying.

Daryl's interest is piqued. "They came through?" 

"More than! Boxes and boxes." Carson grins, but it turns apologetic as he glances between Daryl and the king. "Uh. The trailer's going to be kind of a mess for a while until I get everything put away, we might need to look at putting you up somewhere else for the night."

"He can crash with me," Paul raises his eyebrows at Daryl, who nods like he's just been told he's being released from the brig. To Ezekiel, he adds, "But if you've got a minute to talk first?" 

The king raises a surprised eyebrow and flags Carol down from across the room. She holds up a hand and nods. _One minute_. Leaving the hall, they stop in the entrance Ezekiel can exchange brief words with Henry and a teenaged girl- a few years his senior- about the goat paddock out back. 

He tries to listen, but already, the nervousness is swirling in his gut. With every step up the ornate staircase, it only gets worse, but he tells himself it's just the beer. There's more _fizz_ , down here, enough that he hadn't actually noticed the taste, yet. 

Outside the office, Daryl taps him on the arm, eyebrows raised. _You good?_

He nods, and they follow the king inside, Carol catching up with them as they're dragging chairs closer to the desk.

"All right," Ezekiel says, once Carol's settled in. "So. What say, the both of you?"

Paul looks again at Daryl, searching for any sign that he's changed his mind, but all he gets in return is a steadying nod. 

"I think we'd like to try our luck with-" _SA_ seems too definitive, here- "Jenner and his people." 

"And you're certain of this? I did see that you seemed to be in serious debate for quite some time, this afternoon."

"Nah, it's settled," Daryl says, around a mouthful of bread. "NATOPS was the only game in town for a long while. But, comes down to it, they're responsible for half the problems we've had anyway."

The response is glib, almost, and comes quick and certain enough that Paul can't help staring in surprise. When he tears his eyes away it's to find Ezekiel looking questioningly at him. 

"Yes," he says, as intentionally as possible. "Under the circumstances, it seems more prudent to hedge our bets. We've every faith that Sasha, Carl and Dwight- the rest of our crew- can handle things on the other end."

"And you're all right with radio silence?" Carol asks.

 _You want to see radio silence, try being halfway between two solar systems when the relays are down_. 

Daryl, from his expression, seems to be thinking the same thing.

"We are."

She and Ezekiel have another of their full-conversations-in-a-glance. "All right then. Wow, now that it's here, I don't even know where to start."

"How about," Paul says, "we start with how you're hoping this will all work out?"

\--- 

_Monday, 10/21/2149, 19:51_

Daryl catches the amused glance Ezekiel shoots Paul. "We're that transparent, are we? So be it. You are correct, it's true. We had been hoping for this outcome. " 

"Nobody's going to be able to help the colony out on their own. But until NATOPS and the SA are at a point where they can talk to each other without anyone getting killed, any notion of any kind of aid is dead in the water. There's no saving the colony if humanity first wipes itself out here. That's where you come in."

Daryl manages to shovel more salad into his mouth, then wishes he hadn't tried. Probably looks like a jackass, talkin' around it. "How d'you mean?"

With a glance at Ezekiel, who'd just taken a bite of his food, Carol steps in. "Every attempted peace talk has given way to cold feet, protests and assassination attempts."

"We've lost entire generations to this war. It's not just the dead bodies, it's the minds- the thinking, skills and training set us on a better path. There isn't much hope for interplanetary aid when coordinating epidemic responses on the continental level is outside of reach." At this, Ezekiel breaks into a mischievous grin. "Though perhaps not as severely as NATOPS may believe."

"You tellin' us that the SA guerrillas got a plan?"

"The SA is not monolithic in the way NATOPS is. We see the bands terrorizing the roads, validating every single NATOPS security measure, but that's not all there is to them. There is a base, long established, well organized, secured and well hidden." 

"That's good," Paul sets his beer back down on the table. "Where is it?"

The king has a cagey look to him now. "You're aware of the Western Nuclear Strikes?"

"If you're about to tell us that you're sending us out to a nuclear wasteland, we're done here," he jokes, but it falls flat. Neither Carol nor Ezekiel laugh. Daryl, for his part, wonders it's better to go around the desk, or simply jump over. 

Carol's the one who breaks through the rock-hard silence that's filled the room. "Reports of the detonation may have been exaggerated."

Paul's shaking his head. "But you can't hide the radiation."

"You can if you've infiltrated NATOPS and had a secure line of communication to the base."

That don't make any kind of sense. "What about the explosion? Nukes ain't small."

"After creating an isolated comms channel from the base to DC, spoofing three satellites of different design and origin, creating believable datasets and hacking the remote launch system of a two megaton bomb to target one of those satellites instead, blowing a hole in a mountain may not have been the insurmountable task you and I take it to be."

"NATOPS saw what they wanted to see. They'd already withdrawn their forces from the west coat completely, and their readings told them that anyone setting foot within 400 miles of Denver would die horribly."

"But that was years ago," Paul points out. "That's a lot of people to keep a secret."

"Yes it is. And since then, there's been a pattern of NATOPS personnel being killed or taken by the SA, which is only a small part of what keeps this whole lovely game going."

"And Dr. Jenner was one of these?"

Ezekiel shrugs. "He was a latecomer, and not inner circle. If he were, he might have acted with more discretion, taking his leave. Between his hasty, messy exit, and the progress NATOPS has made in regaining control of a satellite thought past saving, time is running short for the base's invisibility. And with the SA focusing so much on infrastructure, sustainability, and interstellar travel- and so little on weaponry- a clash at this time would be less a battle and more of a massacre."

"They're so smart," Daryl says, "you'd think they would've prepared."

"They knew the threat. They just chose not to rise to it. While their base may be, in appearance, far more impressive than our humble little kingdom here, their people are no different."

Carol snorts. "Zeke, you're making it sound like they're a rinky-dink hippie commune."

"Well it _did_ start out as one," Ezekiel shrugs back at her, then at Paul. "Begun, I believe, by colonist ex-pats who were not pleased with the direction Thera's leadership was going."

"You talking about Boone and Chalmers." Paul shakes his head. "Read about them in school, but we never heard about that."

"I imagine they'd outlived the historically significant portions of their lives, by that point," Ezekiel shrugs, tearing off a hunk of bread. "But, we digress. The fact remains, no meaningful work can be done by anyone if the epidemic continues to spread." 

"That where Jenner comes in?"

"A cure or vaccine would go a long way in leveling the playing field if peace must be waged, but for it to do any good at all, it would need NATOPS distribution. So there already is a very real mutual benefit. We just need to set the stage for it to be discussed rationally."

"And this is where _we_ come in," Paul states, sitting forward in his seat. 

"It may seem premature, but your compatriots will have the ear of NATOPS leadership, and you yourselves will soon appreciate that same status with the SA. This isn't something we've just landed on by chance. It's been in the works for several years now. All we needed was a neutral third party."

"That's hardly us."

"Isn't it though?" Carol bangs her knee on the side of the table as she shifts. 

"Be that as it may," Ezekiel grins at her. "Never underestimate people coming from the sky to tell Earth to get their act together."

"Fair enough," Daryl says, glancing at Paul and sensing, for the first time in a while, his certainty. Its there in the sure nod of his head and the clarity in his eyes as he looks back at him. 

"So," Paul asks, "when do we leave?"

"Not until Dr. Carson gives the go-ahead," Carol says. "And not a minute before."

"I'm fine." It ain't like they've got a surgical bot down here. Carson's told him more than once that time's the only thing that'll do anything at all. "Ain't like I'm bedridden, here."

"How about we just _ask_ him," Paul suggests, a little too carefully, "and go from there?"

Daryl shrugs more sharply than he should, keeps the twinge from showing on his face, and grins at him.

"Sounds good to me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eugh! Thanks for bearing with all the freaking TALKING. True story- the past two chapters you're seeing here are the product of a week spent editing it down from twice the length, so consider yourself spared lol


	32. Chapter 32

_Friday, 10/25/2149, 07:22_

The past few days have gone by faster than Paul could've imagined, though Daryl's been vocal in his disagreement. They'd spent an awful lot of it locked in the office with Ezekiel, learning more about the base, looking at maps, and memorizing radio codes. Packing up food and medical supplies had taken the better part of Wednesday, and Paul had spent yesterday afternoon helping Janine can corn and salsa in some vague hope of karmically balancing their accounts. But between the guns Carol had given them, and the deck of cards they'd gotten from Henry, when he'd cornered Daryl, sensing that the preparations meant something was up, Paul's fairly certain they're coming up short.

Jerry and Nabila, so far as Paul knows, are the only others who know they're heading west instead of east; Ezekiel had brought them in Tuesday morning, and ever since, Daryl's mostly been working with them to gather the supplies they'd require on the road- up to and the car that Nabila swears the kingdom doesn't want or even really need. It had required Daryl and Jerry to make a trip east of town to procure functional tires, a new-ish battery, and for Daryl to oversee the complete reconstruction of the rooftop solar array. 

Daryl being thus indisposed, Paul'd had the opportunity to talk, unsupervised, with Dr. Carson. Were it not for that fact, and the agreement they'd reached, they might have already been on the road by now. 

Which might've, on one level, been a mistake. If his own impatience is getting worse, _Daryl's_ has kept him from sleeping for two nights running. He paces, well into the morning hours, and moodily says that everything's fine. He tosses and turns on the bed, uncomfortable and flailing enough that Paul's glad he'd had the foresight- and the lack of nerves- to keep his distance and claim the couch. 

They've talked it over so many times- should they head through Memphis or around, are they doing the right thing, is there even a point to any of it at all- that there's nothing left to say. He's checked Daryl's stitches often enough that he's finally convinced that it's healing properly, but he's been careful about admitting it. 

They've done everything that could possibly be done to prepare, up to and including sitting through the farewell party Jerry had coordinated, where he'd probably had three beers too many and talked to too many people for far too long into the night. 

And so now, here, this morning, all that's left is to get his hungover ass up, find Daryl, say their goodbyes, and get going. 

Bit it's all Paul can do to sit up on the couch. 

\--- 

It's the last decent shower that Daryl's probably going to have for a few days, and he should be appreciating it more. Instead, he sets it cold as he can in hopes of clearing out the cobwebs that the one beer he'd risked last night had brought. He keeps it quick, slaps a new bandage over the worst of the damage, and gets dressed. Then he walks barefoot along the startlingly cold hallway back to the bedroom.

"You look like hell," he tells Paul, finding him staring miserably at his feet, propped up on the three hundred year old coffee table. 

The bleary scowl he gets in return looks like it would cut glass, or at least like it would _want_ to, if it could muster the energy. "You look... annoying."

Laughing, Daryl grabs his socks and boots, and then, as an afterthought, the anaprox out of his bag and a glass of water from the pitcher on the dresser. 

"I'm serious," Paul grumbles, scooting over to give him another inch of room on the couch before losing steam and accepting the pills. "How are you even awake right now?"

Between the injuries wearing him down and the painkillers, he hadn't risked more than a small glass of beer, unlike Paul, who'd drunk himself social over the course of the evening. "Shower helped." He sits down, pulling his socks on before abandoning the mission, assessing him with a glance. "That bad, huh?" 

"I'm fine," Paul says, before washing the pills down. "Just. Need a minute."

Daryl considers it. "Could fuck off out of here for a bit, let you sleep some more. Ain't like we've got reservations anywhere."

"No, I want to get going, I'm just-"

"Hungover?"

"-that." He grimaces, like suddenly he's remembering sprawling against Daryl's side at the bonfire, rambling drunkenly about wanting to see Chicago, then asking him if he'd ever seen New York, Cairo, fucking _Tokyo_ , all because he'd been unable to grasp simple matters of scale. 

"Traveling ain't something people usually get to just _do_ ," Daryl'd pointed out, and Paul'd nodded, hitting him in the arm. 

"That's right," he'd said, eyes wide like he was remembering something important, and jabbing Daryl in the chest with one sharp forefinger. "Earth's big. And _dangerous_."

What Paul says now, though, is, " _God_ , I need a shower."

"Yeah, you do." Daryl ignores the swat on his arm, ties up his boots, and stands up. 

"All right, fine," Paul sighs, all beer-stale breath, and opens one eye, reaching up dramatically. "Help me up."

Nudging the table out of the way, Daryl grabs his wrist and leans back, dragging him up to his feet until Paul sways into him, overbalanced. 

"All right, I'm gonna...go try and get human." Paul's slow to move, but Daryl is too, and he doesn't have a hangover to blame it on. 

There's no way to tell if Daryl's the only one remembering the way Paul'd taken hold of his hand and leaned into him, feet dragging, as they'd made their meandering way back to the house.   
After a beat, he remembers to let go of Paul's wrist, and Paul nods into his shoulder, once, before shoving past him. 

"You want breakfast after?"

"Only if we're not eating outside," Paul's thumb juts over his shoulder at the light blazing in through the slat blinds, and grabs some clothes out of his bag. "Your planet's sun is trying to kill me."

\--- 

_Friday, 10/25/2149, 08:18_

"So, today's the day," Carol sits down next to him at the table. "You all ready to go?"

Daryl shrugs, glancing out through the door at the stairs. "Depends on how green Paul still is when he gets down here, might put it off a bit." There's no reply, and when he looks over at her, the grin on her face is _just_ a little too knowing. " _What?_ "

"Look at you, bein' all-" 

"Fuckin' seriously? Just don't want him puking all over the damned car ten minutes out." 

He's seen Paul drunk, and he's seen him happy, but rarely at the same time, and never to the extent he'd been last night. He'd laughed, long and hard, at Nabila's story about accidentally transplanting poison ivy instead of squash in the garden, he'd rambled for over an hour at Ezekiel and Carol about the fucked up politics on the Colony. When the conversation'd eventually shifted to preparations for winter, he'd finally settled down. The next time Daryl noticed him he was close to passing out, staring dizzily at the sky overhead. He'd had to haul his recalcitrant ass back inside just so he wouldn't pitch forward into the bonfire. 

Wrinkling her nose, Carol bites into her apple and concedes the point. "You boys have everything you need?" 

"Just our bags, everything else is already packed up." Swallowing his toast, he looks at her. "So what've you got going on, once we're out of your hair?"

"Well, today or tomorrow, Henry and I are heading out pick up some more fencing for the cattle pen."

"Y'all are getting' cows?"

She beams at him, but then, given the population size here, it's kind of startling that they don't already have them, now that he thinks about it. "Straight out from the wild herds of Texas, if that still means anything anymore. Got good land for it to the south, close enough we can bring 'em inside the walls if things get hairy out there. Our cowgirls just got through on this morning's first relay. So far, only lost two of them. Should be here inside a week."

"Cowgirls, huh?"

"Horses and drones, the whole enchilada. Hell, you might even pass them on the road, if timing works out."

"We'll try not to spook them," he says, though honestly, he imagines Paul would be the most startled out of any of them. Would still be something to see, though. 

\--- 

_Friday, 10/25/2149, 08:59_

The last bit of business, before they can all file out to the yard, is to wait for the final go-ahead from Ezekiel, who, like every other morning, has been monitoring the radio for the past twenty minutes so as not to miss the check in. 

This time, however, he's hailing Paul over the moment he gets a signal, passing him the second headset. 

"All right, he's on," Ezekiel says into his mic, nodding at Paul. 

Sensing that he's supposed to say something here, he says. "Uh, hello. This is Paul Rovia?"

There's a brief inhalation on the line. "Sounds like it, at least. Hey Paul, it's Morgan."

He knows he looks like an idiot, here, staring at Ezekiel like this; in his peripheral, he can see Daryl edging forward, curious. 

Possibly getting his hopes up. So Paul shakes his head at him. 

"I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting to hear from you," he tells Morgan. But the moment the words are out of his mouth, he realizes how naive that must sound. Ezekiel hasn't exactly been coy about his extended network, and for him to know as much as he does about Jenner, he'd almost have to know about Morgan, too. 

"Same here. Zeke's been telling me you're heading our way after all. Just wanted to get you on the line, tell you we appreciate it. And, you know. You're expected, we'll keep a look out for you."

"Thank you," he says, startlingly relieved. "We're glad to hear it." 

"I look forward to talking to you in person. Zeke, man, did you give him my handle and code?"

"Papa Midnight," Ezekiel replies, nodding at him. 

He has both memorized, of course. He'd only been missing the crucial component- the actual identity of the anonymous person on the other end of the line. "3941 Delta ."

"Great. Just so you know, I only monitor midnight and three, here, so if you're looking to get at me, that's the best time."

"I'll keep it in mind," he nods, sensing that he needs to wrap this up. "Thanks again, see you around."

"Likewise."

"The hell was that?" Daryl asks, quietly, once he's off the radio and Ezekiel's switched channels, handing it over to Janine, who's got business of her own. 

"Remember me talking about Morgan? That was him."

"Shit. He's out there?"

"Sounds like it. They're expecting us."

Daryl looks like he's about to say something more, but he steps back to let Ezekiel clap him on the arm as he passes. Already, it feels like half the damned kingdom is filtering out into the yard, watching them and waiting. "All right then," he says to Paul. "You ready to go?"

\--- 

"Paul Rovia and Daryl Dixon," Ezekiel announces grandly, and for a moment Daryl's afraid he's about to break into some big Shakespearean speech, but he's falling into step with them, steering them towards the car where Carol, Jerry and Nabila are loitering. "It has been wonderful having you here, please know that should the need or desire ever arise, our doors are always open to you. We'll keep an ear out for you in the meantime, you have but to hail us."

"Let's just hope that when that happens, we'll have good news to report," Paul grins, bowing his head, then looking around at the others. "Thanks, all of you, for everything, you've been-" he breaks off, like he's actually lost for words. "You've been absolutely incredible. I don't know where we'd be without your help."

"The pleasure's been ours," Ezekiel shakes his hand, then Daryl's, nodding at them both before sliding out of the way to allow Jerry better access to clothesline him in a hug that feels more like a tackle.

"It's been real," he says. "Take care of yourselves out there, yeah?"

"You too," Daryl says, sliding out and turning to Nabila. His hand's already on his chest, so he bows. "Was really nice meeting you."

She returns the gesture, then her smile turns into a grimace. 'I never know what to say at times like this. Be well, Daryl."

"You too."

Paul's finishing his goodbyes with Carol, stepping aside to allow Daryl his turn. The hug isn't as painful as Jerry's had been, but it's still awkward, heavier, somehow. 

"Feels like we're sending you off on a freaking honeymoon," Carol mutters into his ear, startling him into laughter.

"Think _that's_ just you. But it's been great seeing you, anyway."

"Charmer."

"Whatever. Just take care of yourself, all right?"

"You too. You _and_ -"

" _Seriously_?" He pulls back to roll his eyes at her, only to find her already laughing at him. 

"Hey, you're trying to save the world, least I can try to do is save you from yourself." With a final squeeze, she steps back, continuing on more loudly. "I find out you got yourselves killed doin' something stupid on the road, Daryl Dixon, I'm not going to let you hear the end of it."

"Sure thing, _your highness_."

He'll probably think of a thousand things to be said once they're miles away from here, but for now, it feels like enough. And anyway, Paul's already making his way around to the passenger side door of the red hatchback. 

This is it. 

A final round of goodbyes and good lucks, and he's sliding into the driver's seat, glancing at Paul as the gates begin to slowly open. The grin is still frozen on his face, but he looks overwhelmed. 

"You up for this?"

"If we don't go now," Paul sinks down into his seat, face going slack now that he doesn't have to bear up under all the attention, "we'll just have to start the glad-handing all over again." 

Daryl punches the starter button, the engine purrs to life, and the gravel starts to crunch under their tires. Paul waves back as they slide through the gate, resisting the urge to floor it. 

Another few minutes, and they'll be hitting pavement. He can open it up then.


	33. Chapter 33

_Monday, 10/28/2149, 11:30_

The temperature's only been getting up to the 60s, which seems unseasonably cold, though he could be misremembering. And he'll happily take it, long as it means the sun stays out and the battery stays charged. They're moving slow enough, thanks to the full stop he has to make every time they need to turn; at least they're not having to take charging breaks.

Which is good, because the faster they're going, the sooner they can find help for Paul.

\--- 

At first, Daryl'd thought it was just the hangover. Then, maybe, just carsickness that had them pulling over every hour or so to allow Paul to stumble out and heave into the roadside weeds. They'd still been heading towards Birmingham, Daryl's knuckles increasingly tight on the wheel as he contemplated ignoring Ezekiel's advice. 

Back in his office, during their first planning session, the king had asked, "Carol, do we have a spare short range radio?" and frowned down at the map Paul'd been tracing. "It's not wise to go into the cities uninvited these days."

Daryl'd been too focused at the sling biting into the back of his neck to pay much attention, but if there was intel to go on that was more detailed than the suspicions he already held, it had seemed worth asking. "Why not?"

"Any scant outposts of civilization currently rely on heavily guarded borders. Without references and proper ID's, you're not going to be able to expect a warm welcome."

"Do we even have anyone out that way who'll pick up?"

"Kansas City, if they want to risk Topeka right afterwards."

Paul had looked up, brow creased. "And what's in Topeka?"

"A NATOPS post gone to seed. Apparently it's quiet, if you can make it past the walls and well-armed turrets, staffed with guards who know their orders and don't like surprises. Few hours west, in Salina, it's more of the same. But Topeka's attracted quite a large scavenger community outside the walls. If you're without escort, it's just not worth the trouble."

But Paul's been looking worse by the hour, so Daryl's been thinking about risking it anyway. 

The nausea might've passed, but he's got no appetite and his eyes and nose are running like faucets. This morning- before the sun was even up- Daryl'd found him wrapped in a blanket against the back tire, trying to stifle his coughing and looking scared out of his mind. The cold meds he'd scrounged up hadn't worked.

Convincing him to get back into the car had taken ten minutes, and had nearly devolved into a fight before Paul had finally agreed to climb into the back seat to try to get some rest. 

It shouldn't take him another few hours to figure out why Paul'd been so worried about being contagious, but it does. 

\--- 

"It's not the flu," Daryl states, hoping more than believing it. 

"I've got all the symptoms. And now you're stuck in here with me."

Thing is, he's not entirely wrong. "Got the window open, don't I?"

"And you think that's enough?" From the back seat, pressed against the door as much as he can be, Paul rubs at his throat. 

"Look, I know you're sick, and that sucks and I get it, but I think it's just a-"

"2127."

"What?"

But he knows, suddenly, what he's talking about: the Outbreak. 

Capitalized for the history books. The flu had swept, quick and unchecked, through the Colony. A tenth of the population- kids and adults- had died before SciMed had managed to get a handle on it. 

"I've got my shots," Daryl says, thinking it through. "Whole host of them, before they even let anyone set foot on the launch site."

Paul sighs, his breath sounding heavy and fought-for, but through the rearview Daryl can see him relax, a bit. A few minutes more, and he looks like he's about to doze off. 

Which is why Daryl keeps his mouth shut when the next thought ticks over, cold and inevitable. 

They hadn't come on a sanctioned run. There'd been no quarantine or immunization protocol when they'd left. When they'd arrived, the shots Siddiq had given Daryl had been more about reducing the spread of Colony-borne contagions, and he hadn't asked- hadn't thought to- about the shots the rest of the crew were getting. 

They'd probably thought of it, though. 

Daryl's just not sure. 

\--- 

Paul leans against the window, the cool glass providing a nice counter to the warm sunlight. His skin still feels sweaty and clammy, but he's starting to think it's more about being cooped up in here than it is about anything more serious.

Though he's not entirely convinced. His head _hurts_ , and his eyes are itching constantly. His nose has been running for two days- his bandana's filthy- and somehow, he's still completely stuffed up, and his throat is dry and scratchy. 

He's not tired, but he pretends to be, because dozing off is pretty much all there is to do, and as long as Daryl thinks he's passed out, he's not looking at him. Not getting any evidence that Paul's not handling his shit, not focusing on the sweaty, disgusting incompetent mess that he's become. 

Water helps, some, but the cold medication doesn't make a dent beyond drying out his sinuses to a painful extent; it still hurts to breathe.

Forehead against the glass, he watches the scenery pass by. The leaves on the trees are starting to change from green to red and gold, which is impressive at such a scale and seems sudden, after so many miles clearing nothing but open prairie. But there are no signs of civilization, either; there haven't been for a few hours, now. 

Last night, they'd pulled off into a suburb outside of Birmingham, which hadn't meant anything at all to Paul until the sun had set. Not knowing exactly where the city's boundaries are, neither one of them had wanted to go too far afield to explore. 

That hadn't stopped Daryl from disappearing for over three hours. 

Three hours where he sat in the open door of the car, blanket over his shoulders, trying to listen out past the surrounding warehouses for any signs of life, and trying to ignore the increasingly creative nightmare scenarios his brain was playing for him. 

Because over the tops of the buildings, he'd seen a yellow glow in the sky to the north. Headlights, he'd thought at first, but they hadn't moved. The haze had just grown slightly brighter as the sky had grown dark.

Not far from here was a _city_ , where people- hundreds or maybe thousands, were going about their lives. Evening dinner, maybe going out with friends or watching vids inside their safe living rooms. Safe, because they had security. 

And right then, alone in an alley in a nameless suburb, he hadn't the first clue what, exactly, that had entailed. Only that, from their perspective, he and Daryl were unwelcome interlopers, here. They were the threats at the border, and Daryl had wandered off without even bringing the _radio_. 

He hadn't even known, past the end of the alley, which direction Daryl had gone, and, dammit, he'd _just found_ him again. There hadn't been enough time to fix anything, to change anything-

-to sort out, with an even head, what, if anything, this second chance could mean for them. 

\---

Eventually and without fanfare, though, Daryl'd come walking up the alley with a thermoscanner and cold medicine, which hadn't cost him anything but a full accounting of the road conditions out to the east. 

"Nice couple," Daryl'd commented, pulling a NATOPS blue bottle out of his pocket and checking the label. "Least, might've been, once."

Paul had been too busy staring at the deep scratch running up Daryl's forearm, furious, to notice the bottle being shoved into his face. "Did you have to kill them?"

Daryl'd laughed, tense. "They were already dead. Lost them out behind some houses. 

"Don't go out there again," he'd said, downing the pills dry and hating how much that had sounded like _please don't leave me_. He hadn't been able to duck Daryl's gaze as he crouched in front of him and pressed the scanner against his pulse point, he hadn't been able to hide. He hadn't even been able to edge back to spare Daryl having to smell him. 

But he hadn't missed the heaved sigh of relief when Daryl checked the scanner. Any other time, that smile would be dazzling. "Good news. No fever."

"Bad news," Paul'd swallowed again, feeling the pills stick in his throat. "Still no idea what's wrong with me."

"It's probably just a cold." Daryl'd stood up then, making an irritated noise at the sight of Paul's empty water bottle, which he'd taken to the trunk's tank to refill. "That stuff should knock you out, have you feeling better by morning."

\--- 

_Monday, 10/28/2149, 15:25_

"Can we open the windows?"

"In a bit," Daryl says. It's beyond stuffy in here, but even out here in the burbs, there are too many blind corners. Too many places where the undead could swarm and run at them. "Soon as we're back on the highway, all right?"

Paul's admission, that the meds ain't been working hadn't been a surprise. He'd sounded awful, tryin' to sleep in the passenger seat last night. And while he does look better now, more alert and awake, his voice is still rough, his face still looks raw.

The fresh air might do him some good. 

_Waiting_ might've done them both some good. Would've given his arm and shoulder more time to heal up, allowed Paul the time to learn how to drive. 

Steering one-handed is tiring. The past few days, having to take turns at from a near-dead stop had been merely irritating, but now, shit's changed. He can't fight for shit, ain't honestly sure he can get them clear of anything. And he ain't fool enough to believe that he ain't gonna have to.

There'd just been two of them, dead and withered and brainless as they'd staggered, but he'd been in their sights and they'd been relentless. He's been half-expecting to see them lurching after them in the rearview all day. But he keeps it quiet. 

No need to freak Paul out when he's already so goddamned miserable. 

No need to underline just how much Daryl can't fucking _help_ him. 

\---

 _Finally_ , though, they're crawling back up onto the highway, which, according to the map at least, ought to clear up after another few miles. They should start making good time, then. Maybe even get to Memphis by nightfall.

Daryl presses the button on the door, eases their windows halfway down. The cool rush of air does almost nothing, yet, against the damp hair on his neck. But still, it's an improvement. Paul's leaning back against the seat, eyes out the window, almost smiling. 

"Let me know if you see anything, need to stop," Daryl says, careful not to define what that could be. 

"Will do."

He doesn't have to, though. By the time Daryl's edging the needle up over fifty for the first time in a day and a half, Paul's already asleep. Maybe this time, when he wakes up, all this will be behind them.


	34. Chapter 34

_Tuesday, 10/29/2149, 14:27_

Daryl'd switched the radio on to see if they could catch any of the 9:00 updates, but the signal had been weak, so they'd repacked their gear and gotten back on the road. The static's been filling Paul's head ever since. 

The worst of the nausea's passed, but other than that, whatever's wrong with him is not getting any better. The headache under his eyes is throbbing, he gets dizzy whenever he looks out the side window too long, and, worst of all, he's started noticing that the hearing in his left ear cuts out, now and again, suddenly and without warning. 

Which is maybe why he doesn't hear Daryl, and doesn't notice that the way he's swaying forward is because the car's stopping, not because of another wave of vertigo. 

He looks over at Daryl, who is now looking at him with red, watery eyes. 

"What?" Looking out through the windshield and up the road Paul can see a store. There's a truck parked outside with _NATOPS Distribution Site_ and _Zone MI 5.8_ painted across in bright white letters; the first sign of civilization they've seen all day. 

"You all right?" 

The concern on his face makes him want to say _yes, of course_ , but all he can muster is a pointed, "Are you?"

"I'm fine," Daryl says, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "But I've got an idea. Need to go check it out."

_Shit_. 

Paul edges up against the passenger side door; it doesn't carve out much of a quarantine zone. 

Apparently, it's too late, anyway.

"You're sick."

"Dunno," Daryl shrugs, and starts edging the car up the off ramp. "Ain't sure you are, either."

\--- 

Like most structures on Earth, the store seems to have been built up out the wreckage of previous buildings. There's a battery charger sitting in between the tarp-covered gas pumps; it's wired up to the solar panels on the awning. The composting toilets on the edge of the cracked parking lot had also been a later addition. And Paul's pretty sure the three shipping containers lined up next to the building hadn't been there when the Shell Station had been selling gasoline at 80 dollars a gallon. 

But there's someone inside, behind the counter. They're hard to make out through the glass reflection, but they're looking back out at them. 

Of course they're interested, Paul realizes. The two of them haven't seen another vehicle in hours, not since the convoy they'd passed heading the opposite direction. It hadn't slowed, or turned to follow them, and Daryl hadn't had any reason not to return the favor. 

But why this place is still operational when there's so little traffic, Paul doesn't know. 

Daryl's feet are already on the pavement when he realizes Paul isn't getting out of the car. "You want to wait here?" 

"No," Paul wheezes, "I'm good."

Even though he's the one swinging it shut, the slam of the car door feels startlingly loud, and he doesn't like the feeling of being watched, but the uneasiness doesn't hit full force until Daryl pushes through the front door.

The stench of _rot_ is a physical blow, stopping Daryl in his tracks and sending Paul staggering back; his eyes burn, his stomach roils. Bracing his hands on his knees, he gasps, trying to stop himself from vomiting, but it's only making him dizzier. 

By the time he gets it under control, Daryl, rag held to his face, is already _walking inside_. And past him, through the open door, Paul's got a clearer view of the clerk. 

Who is rotten, dead, hissing and scrabbling at them from the other side of the counter.

Without thinking, he lunges after Daryl, grabbing him by the arm, pulling him back, holding on to the door frame for leverage. "What are you-" 

-but Daryl barely sways, and doesn't even look back at him. "It's fine."

"No, _fuck_ , it's-" the zombie's crawled up onto the counter; it takes Paul a moment to realize that the muffled thumping noise is the sound of decomposing hands striking the glass barrier. 

Daryl turns to him, eyes wild, like there's a part of him that knows how fucked up this is, and another that's _relieved_ by it. "It's locked in, we're good." 

There are slimy, meaty _streaks_ on the glass that are somehow even more horrific than the snapping jaw and milky eyes; Paul can't look. Just pulls back harder. 

Daryl maneuvers him back a step, arm on his shoulder. "Wait outside," he says. "It'll just be a minute."

"Nothing in there is worth-"

"It's fine, just _go_."

Paul squeezes his eyes shut. Wants to take a breath to steel himself, but his lungs won't let him. "No. You come with me. At least grab a gun."

"Glass is bullet proof, in places like this."

"I don't fucking _care_ ," he points out. The zombie might be trapped, and might not be. There could be others, lurking around the corner. It's not worth it. "Let's just keep going."

Rolling his eyes, Daryl releases him then follows him back out to the car. Neither of them get in yet; the air is breathable, at least, but Paul's not sure the smell won't follow them in. 

Daryl, though, is continuing around to the trunk, and pulling out two guns, jaw set. 

"You keep watch out here," he hands one over. "I'll just be a minute."

\--- 

He can feel Paul scowling at him as he shoulders the station door open, listening carefully. The zombie's making such a racket that if any others were here, they would'e already been drawn to the noise, but it's just the one, trapped behind the counter. 

It used to be a person. A man, most likely, though the stained, baggy NATOPS uniform makes it hard to tell. Now it's just teeth and creepy eyes and shredded bony hands streaking the glass. 

_Ignore it_.

God, he can barely breathe, and the smell still cuts through. 

Checking again to make sure the protective barrier does wrap around to cage it in from all sides, he transfers the gun to his sling, and cautiously steps inside, letting the door fall shut behind him. He checks the aisles, just to be sure that there's nobody else, living or dead, lurking behind the shelves. He can hear scurrying-rats, probably, drawn to the littered mess of rations covering the floor, thick as a garbage dump.

The next two aisles are more of the same; now that he's acclimating, he can pick out the cloyingly sweet smell of spilled, moldering sugar that's gluing more of the mess together. The last aisle is full of empty blue NATOPS supply crates, once stacked against the shelves, now mostly knocked over. Behind those, he finds what he's looking for. 

The personal care supplies have mostly been picked over- there's no sign of bandages, painkillers, tampons or toothpaste. The only things remaining are vitamins, chapstick, eye drops, and- _yes_ \- down in the corner, two boxes of allergy medication, one of which is torn off its hook and kicked down to the floor. The corner of the box is crushed open, but the foil packets seem mostly unharmed. 

He grabs them both, sliding them into his front pocket and glancing warily at the corpse, which has found its way up onto the counter. Ignoring it as best he can, he scans for anything else that might be of use- there's still a stack of crates that seem unharmed at the end of the aisle. 

He's contemplating the garbage he'd have to wade through- and the staff door that's wedged open behind the stockpile- when he hears the crash behind him. 

The gun catches on the strap as he tries to pull it from the sling, certain that the zombie's broken out, he braces for _whatever's next_ , but it's no closer than it had been a minute ago, it's just knocked something over. 

He doesn't know if it's morbid curiosity, or the sense that this might be the only time he'll have a relatively safe minute to learn anything, but he warily steps closer. The zombie's stepped onto a hook from a countertop display unit somehow, dragging the whole thing clumsily across the counter. On the floor behind it, the cash register's in pieces. 

It's fucking disgusting, even before it crouches down like a gargoyle to meet him at face level. The mouth moves like it's bobbing for apples that ain't there; he can hear the clack of teeth through the heavy plexiglass. Shredded flesh snares lumps of fat or sinew- maggots, maybe- in a latticework net spreading out from its neck; when it turns its head, he can see through one wall of his cheek. The eyes are the worst, all clouded over and mottled. It shouldn't even be able to see him, he just doesn't _understand_ -

Suddenly unable to _take_ it, he jumps back. The zombie tries to follow, hitting the shelves sending all sorts of shit spilling to the floor. Mostly boxes of condoms and cigarettes, but something lands with a heavy thud in the divot under the glass at the cashier's spot. Daryl can't help laughing when he sees the plastic flask of cheap rum lying there, half under the glass, like the counter's just become a very strange vending machine. 

Snatching it out of the tray proves easy enough- the zombie doesn't seem to understand that he's grabbing for it, like it only follows his movement in the most general sense. But when he turns towards the front of the shop, spoils in hand, he sees the agitated silhouette sharp against the bright sunny parking lot, and his momentary hysteria evaporates instantly. 

Paul's got both hands on his gun, unaimed but otherwise ready, though he's got his back to the road. Anything could come up behind him and he probably wouldn't even notice, with the way he's staring. 

Yeah. He's being an idiot, pushing it like this.

Wedging the flask into his back pocket, he steps outside, taking his first breath of nearly-fresh air in what feels like hours. 

Paul- who clearly saw everything- isn't smiling, and doesn't say anything until they're back on the other side of the car.

"Hope it was worth it. Also, you're an ass."

He sets his gun on the roof's solar panel, careful to point it out towards the road, and digs the boxes out of his pocket, handing them over.

"You're welcome." 

Paul frowns at the box. 

"CLZ?"

"Allergy meds."

"What?" Paul frowns, tries handing them back; Daryl reaches out for his sidearm instead, slipping it into his sling. "I don't have allergies." 

"And I barely do, but I started getting hit this morning. You ever been tested?" 

"No idea, but that doesn't mean..." 

It's all rhetorical, anyway. Ain't like he knows whether the colony, as quarantined as it is, would think to test for _ragweed_. "My mom used to get 'em pretty bad. Headaches and the usual stuff, but sometimes she'd just pass out." It had been terrifying, the first time it had happened. They'd been at the park, she'd gone down, and Daryl hadn't been old enough to even know to be afraid that she'd dropped dead, but Merle had been; it was the loudest he'd ever heard him scream. "Came down to fluid in her ear or some shit, it fucked with _her_ hearing, too."

"So that's your diagnosis?" Paul's grin is patronizing, but his eyes crinkle at the edges and, like he's catching himself, he rolls his reddened eyes. "Still. That was a stupid risk."

Grabbing his gun off the roof of the car, he heads back towards the trunk before he can get caught staring. "Yeah, well. Try 'em out. If they don't work, I'm out of ideas." 

Stashing the rum, he can't help locking onto the muffled sliding thumps coming from inside the shop. The zombie's still pressed against the window with one gory, hook-torn foot wedged at a sickening, impossible angle against the window frame as it tries to claw its way through. 

It won't, not anytime soon, and they'll be long gone when it does. 

Nevertheless, the glove box might be a better place to keep the guns until they get where they're going; there ain't no sense in makin' them harder to get to, if they're gonna have them at all. So he heads back to stash them, undoing his sling as an afterthought. 

"What're you doing?" Paul shakes his head warningly, his exasperation a lot less fond than it had been a minute ago. " _Daryl_."

"Thing's more trouble than it's worth."

\--- 

_Tuesday, 10/29/2149, 17:31_

The clouds had rolled in a few hours back, and even before the rain had started, it's been the kind of dark that turns everything gray and mutes any possible distractions. 

Which means Daryl's had hours to think about where and how the DC-bound crew might be. To try to wrap his head around the reality of a zombie trapped inside an old gas station. 

Paul had found a marker, before they'd left, and written _DEAD INSIDE_ over the NATOPS sign, in huge, uneven letters. Fair warning for the next people to pass by. They should've killed it instead- Daryl's pretty sure of that, now- because there's a chance someone won't read the sign, won't notice, won't _think_. Won't have the kind of luck Daryl'd had, with rum bottles practically falling into his hands after finding the one thing he'd gone in to find. 

Knowing that one zombie locked down to a four by eight point on the map is weird and unsettling enough without knowing where they'll find more, or how many they'll find. So all he can do is keep watch, scanning everything they pass- garbage, trees, mailbox posts- for signs of life. 

Not life. _Movement_. 

The windshield wipers have been moving at a steady, slow pace for the past half hour, but the rain's starting to come down harder. Reaching up to adjust the speed pulls just enough on his shoulder to make it _almost_ feel good. Mostly it's just a heavy drag that makes his lower back hurt. He probably shouldn't have gotten rid of the sling so soon. 

On the bright side, Paul's too knocked out under his coat for an _I told you so_. And his breathing don't sound like a death rattle anymore, neither. 

\---

They're skirting the edge of a storm, though so far, it doesn't seem too bad. 

It happens so slowly, he doesn't even realize what it is or what it means. But gradually, _yeah_ , it becomes clear. Not all of the brightness in the sky up to the north is due to lightning. Some of it's the dim haze of light pollution.

Daryl can't tell whether it's the lightning or thunder that does it, but Paul wakes up, anxious and sudden. "Where are we?"

"Comin' up on Memphis."

Paul nods like that means something to him, and sits back in his seat, eyes blinking comically wide.

Daryl gives him a minute to finish waking up; realizes how close to falling asleep at the wheel he himself has been. "Been out most of the day." 

"Sorry." He rubs at his face and rolls his neck, looking at him. "You doin' all right?"

"I'm good," he says, stretching his shoulder out deliberately and letting the pain nudge him back to full alertness. "Feelin' any better?"

"Think so." He sounds surprised. 

"So you're saying I was right."

Paul shoots him a withering look. "I'm saying your planet is stupid."

"Thus spoke Jesus the diplomat, upon his return to Earth."

Paul grins, blinking as he tries to peer through the rain, finally locking onto the lights and the vague hint of skyline growing closer. "Is that it?"

"Pretty sure." 

Then the grin fades, because Paul's awake enough to notice the empty suburb they're passing by- Southaven, if the signs had been right- and there are streets and buildings for miles, signs of past life, all completely dark. 

"They're gonna see us coming."

"Yeah." Daryl's been thinking about _that_ , too. According to Ezekiel, the only checkpoints had been on the off-ramps. "Ain't tryin' to gain entry, though, so it shouldn't be a problem."

"Long as the weather holds."

\---

_Tuesday, 10/29/2149, 18:05_

The weather only gets worse, but Daryl drives through the blinding rain like it's nothing. There's actual traffic, here. Mostly cargo trucks that Daryl doesn't seem to be properly worried about, moving too fast on roads that don't feel as solid as they'd seemed this morning.

"That one's getting kind of close," Paul says, twisting around in his seat to face front again, having decided that watching headlights closing in on their rear bumper isn't going to make him feel any more at ease.

"I see it." Daryl edges the car into the right lane; the truck blasts by them a moment later, sending a heavy barrage of splashed rainwater against the windows; he doesn't even blink. He does, though, glance over at him. "You all right?"

Paul nods, feeling foolish. "Yeah. Just. Not used to other vehicles _not_ being a problem."

Daryl seems to give it some thought, but it's clear that he doesn't quite follow. "They ain't all enemies."

"They're not all friends, either." As if on cue, another set of headlights come up behind them; before he can give any kind of warning, Daryl shakes his head.

"We've got mirrors," he reminds him. "It's fine."

"Sorry." He makes a point of settling down in the seat again. "Been sitting on my ass too long." They're driving alongside the wall, now, a dull, gray unending slate that cuts most of the city from view. There are drone windows, here and there, all closed for the time being, as if the residents trust the rain to keep any problems at bay. 

"Tell me about it," Daryl says, rolling his neck. "Soon as we get clear, well find somewhere to break for the night."

\---

_Tuesday, 10/29/2149, 21:00_

The rain's letting up, and the westbound traffic's thinned out again, with most vehicles having pulled off one ramp or another, heading for the flashing red and orange of checkpoint lights. 

Even knowing that the city isn't interested in the two of them at all, it's a relief when they reach the other side of the bridge. 

The security's all theater, anyway. When they have to stop at the bridge to tell a bored looking woman in a NATOPS uniform that they're just driving straight through to Oklahoma City, she doesn't even ask for the lie they'd made up about Paul's sister who lives there. 

Daryl's almost disappointed. She's the first living person they've talked to in days. 

As soon as they're over the Arkansas border, they've got a good view north of the wall. The river's wide, but not so wide that a drone attack couldn't be launched from here. A couple of boats would be all that it took to take the city from the side. It's just distance, now, between them and thousands of lights- thousands of people- all going about their lives. Getting ready for dinner, maybe going out to see shows- though maybe that's just reputation and ancient history lying again. 

It wouldn't be the first time Daryl's been wrong about a place. 

Even so, once they've pulled off into an overgrown parking lot that's so rough it might as well not exist, he can't help thinking that maybe, it would've been worth trying to stop in. He'd wanted to go there, when he was a kid, to chase down whatever it was about the place that had his mom smiling whenever she'd talked about it. 

That, and Paul. While Daryl's pacing around the car, stretching his legs, Paul's standing, stock still and arms crossed, glaring across the river at the lights like they're inbound missiles. 

Which is odd, because from here, they might as well be looking from OT at the lights on the strip back home. He doubts Paul would appreciate his pointin' that out, though. And he ain't really sure how to tell him, either, that for all that Daryl never planned or really wanted to see any of it again, not _all_ of earth is hostile. 

But as he watches, he can see the LED lights of dozens of drones risin' above the wall, scanning the highway out to the river, and he can't really fault Paul for worrying. 

\--- 

 

_Wednesday, 10/30/2149, 01:19_

Paul figures he's doing a pretty good job of it, all things considered. 

Not freaking out at every sound- rustling leaves, creaking branches, or the wind that's causing it all. Not getting hypnotized by the droplets pelting the windshield whenever they're shaken loose from the trees overhead. Staying _awake_.

Because there are guns in the glove box, and dwelling on necessary they might become is taking up nearly all of his attention. He'd held one, low and ready, trying to keep sight of Daryl through the windows as he took a stupid fucking risk, all on account of some _allergies_. The fact that they seem to be helping be damned.

Because if Daryl'd been wrong- if the zombie hadn't actually been sealed in, or if it had managed to break through the glass, or if there'd been another waiting in the back...

… they probably would've taken care of it. But _probably's_ never a sure thing. 

And he's a little bit angry about it, even if it's pointless and stupid and the result of replaying the scene over and over in his head. 

But he's been thinking in circles for a while. There's nothing new for his brain to latch onto, no new avenues to consider, and it's getting harder to keep his eyes open. With Daryl passed out in the back seat with his cold pack, Paul's just getting _bored_. The windows have been steaming up for hours, and swabbing the windows with his sleeve does little against the stultifying humidity inside the car. 

There could be _anything_ out there. There probably isn't, but there _could_ be. 

His back's protesting spending this much time sitting in the car, and his knees actually _hurt_. He's gotten used to the suffocating feeling- thanks, allergies- but this time it's warm and close and humid. A new kind of wearing annoyance. And the more he moves around, trying to get comfortable, the greater the chances that he'll wake Daryl, who'd been falling asleep during dinner. 

And Paul can't see anything from in here anyway. And, really, _again_ , some fresh air would be nice. 

So, as slowly and quietly as he can, he opens the glove box, sliding out one of the handguns Daryl'd stashed there. Then he opens the door.

"Paul?" Daryl's pushed himself up, eyes barely open, practically _pouting_. 

"All good, just need a break. Go back to sleep."

"'kay. Be careful. Don't go far." Daryl settles back down, dragging the blanket up over his shoulder against the frigid air blasting into the car. 

Which wouldn't be blowing in this much if Paul wasn't sitting there with the door wide open and this stupid sudden grin on his face. 

Forcing it down- he can moon about Daryl's half-awake grumpy face outside as easily as inside- he steps out of the car, bracing himself against the refreshing cold damp breeze. He eases the door shut behind him, and stretches his back. 

The moon's out, carving the edges of the clouds and the tops of the trees in stark relief, but the view to the east is more impressive. 

He can see the entire city from here, all done up in lights. Mostly yellow and white past the checkpoints, dotting streets and the sides of impossibly tall buildings. On the northern side, some of them are pink, blue, green and purple, like the colored LEDs down on the strip but there are _so many more_ , reflecting in the water of the river snaking by. 

And to the south, it all comes to a sudden, abrupt stop at the wall. Beyond that, there are headlights, every so often, sweeping along the highway. Less rare are the drones, swooping over the city and highway, tracing sharply defined patrol routes in faint steady red. 

He hasn't bothered asking what they're looking for- if they're looking for anything at all, or if that's just the way people live, here. Walls and drones, security wrapped around whatever spikes of life this planet manages to hang onto, keeping enemy forces at bay. 

Even with the moon, it's dark enough that he wouldn't be able to make out any shape of the city if those lights went out. 

Maybe it's fucked up, but he can't help wondering about the city's life span. It's survived decades of war- and done well for itself, apparently- but epidemics spread fastest in cities. Part of him wants to go down there, warn them. But maybe they already know, maybe they've already got a system to deal with it. 

Maybe they're fools, preparing against the dead the way they're preparing against the living. Maybe they believe the threat comes from outside, maybe they're blind to everything. 

A wet, muted _rack_ tears him from his increasingly morbid ruminations, and he turns back to the trees, listening hard.

Probably a branch, knocked loose in the storm and finally giving way to gravity. 

But as he hones in on the sound, he realizes that the rustling of leaves has a heavy, even rhythm to it. If it's an animal, it's large. 

He steps carefully around the trunk- it's not much of a hiding spot, paltry cover at best- and pulls the handgun from his pocket, deciding _all right. I've got this_ , though it's too dark in the trees, honestly, to see much of anything. 

Peering over the top of the car, he watches a shape emerge at the edge of the moonlit lot. He sees the feet first, then the hands, then the rest. 

The zombie's moving slowly. He doesn't know how far it's come to get here, but he _knows_ , deep down, that it's coming right at him, or will be, soon. If he hasn't caught their attention yet, he's about to. Better to take care of it now then climb back inside the car to wonder. 

So his first concern probably shouldn't be the rude awakening he's about to give Daryl. And it probably won't help, much, but he only keeps the car between them until he can get the gun ready to fire. 

Checking it twice, he begins edging sideways and out into the open, drawing the zombie after him. 

He's got his aim set by the time the zombie comes completely into view; it is- _had been_ \- a woman. Her hair's stringy and her dress is badly stained; her bare legs are mottled and dirty and he should be _firing_ , already. But his legs are shaking, suddenly and out of nowhere, and he thinks he must be panicking, but he can't really _feel_ it, so he takes a breath, and doesn't tear his eyes away.

It's less ten feet away, now, _less_ -

-and he pulls the trigger. 

She crumples, nearly- not nearly _enough_ \- by the trunk, but by the time Paul's retreating, he can hear the door opening on the other side of the car; Daryl's launching himself out, head whipping around looking towards him and _not_ toward the dead woman who's turning to close in on him. 

"Paul?!"

"Daryl, _behind you!_ "

Daryl spins, slamming the back door shut and reaching for the front, whipping it open and diving inside- _without shutting it_ \- but Paul's got a shot at her head, over the roof, if he's accurate and _quick_ , so-

-he fires. There's a horrible splattering and a thump as she drops from view. And then, 

"Fuck!"

Daryl's shout sends ice through his veins as a million thoughts crowd his brain at once. Had he missed? In the darkness all he'd seen is an outline, it's possible that Daryl'd gotten caught in the crossfire, maybe she'd landed on him, partially intact and still relentlessly moving-

-Paul rushes around the trunk, _positive_ that he's about to see her on top of him, tearing at his throat. But instead, it's just Daryl, half sitting sideways in the front passenger seat, gun in hand, staring down at the crumpled mess at his feet. 

"You okay?" His throat's so dry the words actually _hurt_. 

Daryl's still holding himself up like he'd just been about to stand; he sinks back down when he sees Paul.

"Yeah, 'm fine." He shakes his head, dazed. "You?"

"I." He has no idea how to answer the question. He has no idea why he's still _thrumming_ like this; he has to bite down just to stop his teeth from chattering. "Sorry, I tried-"

Setting the gun on the dashboard and bracing himself up on the headrest, Daryl gets to his feet, steps over the gory mess, and moves to intercept him. 

"Don't," he says, voice tense, catching Paul's wrist and lowering the gun all the way down, then slipping it loose of his fingers. "Was a hell of a shot."

"It was _close_." A lot more so than he'd like, and a lot _louder_ ; they'd probably heard it all the way back in the city. 

Daryl's eyes are probably as wide as his are when he glances up from the body. ""Beats the alternative, though." He takes a breath, lets it out, and Paul, quietly, tries to mimic him. 

In the wake of the gunfire, everything seems frozen and quiet, even Daryl, and the body on the ground between them most of all. He can't even make out her face, can't tell if there's any face _there_. All he can see is the sharp, wet damage.

Paul realizes how tightly he's got his arms wrapped around himself only when the leather of his sleeve starts digging painfully into his inner elbow. "I tried drawing her off," he suddenly needs to explain, though the words aren't there. "Thought I could-"

"Hey, no." Daryl shakes himself, then steps forward, dragging him in close. "You _did_ , all right? It's fine, you did great."

Daryl's pulse is wild against the side of his face; he leans into it, _needs_ it, more than he means to. He wants to sob, inexplicably, when Daryl shifts away, but he's only maneuvering his other arm around Paul's back- 

-and kissing the top of his head-

-before tightening the embrace, alive and safe. 

\--- 

Daryl's shoulder is killing him, so he focuses on the absence of feeling in his fingers, and Paul's warm breath against his throat, which he _can_. Gradually, he can feel himself calming down. Thinks maybe that Paul, is, too. 

Fuck. 

He hadn't been asleep- not even dozing, really- once Paul had gotten out of the car. He'd been lyin' there, starin' blindly at the back of the back seat, tryin' to listen, tryin' to decide whether or not he should follow. Paul'd said he'd needed a break, and Daryl hadn't asked what that had meant. He'd just told him not to go far, and hadn't pressed him for an answer. 

And so, since Paul had never been one to make a lot of unnecessary noise, he'd been worrying. About locals creeping down off the road, or the red light of a drone setting a bead on Paul. About zombies, because the _dead walk_ , now- lurking around the corner of the old warehouse at the end of the lot.

Daryl had just given up any pretense of being okay with not having line of sight on him, and he'd finally decided that getting up to check on him wasn't out of line, when the gunshot had blasted, _too_ damned close. Everything after that had been _panic_. 

Paul shouting. Diving for the glove box, numb fingers fumbling the gun, seeing movement- _wrong, dead_ movement- in his peripheral, and a deafening gunshot. 

The zombie'd dropped dead, inches from his feet, and he'd had his back turned. 

And here Paul is anyway, solid and real and leaning into him like Daryl's earned it, somehow. Just letting him be fucking _relieved_ for a minute. 

But only for a minute, because over Paul's shoulder, at the far edge of the parking lot, he can see more movement slinking out of the shadows, heading towards them. 

"Hey, uh." He squeezes Paul, alerting him. "We should get going."

"All right." Paul takes a deep breath and lets it out; knocks against Daryl's jaw when he raises his head. Then he nods and starts pulling away, his grin on the edge of manic. "Just one thing."

"What?"

His hands move to bracket Daryl's ribs, and he leans up. "Retaliation." 

The kiss is firm, rough and almost too damned quick to meet properly, but the look in Paul's eye as he pulls back steals his breath anyway, which is unfortunate because he really needs to tell him- _love you_ \- "Get in the damn car, _now_."


	35. Chapter 35

_Wednesday, 10/30/2149, 13:43_

"I'm just so _bored_."

Daryl shoots him a glare so unimpressed that it's hard to believe that just over twelve hours ago, he'd had Paul's tongue in his mouth. It's a little insulting. 

"Join the club." 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/30/2149, 14:05_

"You can't honestly expect me to believe that you wouldn't like to take a break," Paul says, like two minutes is enough to get over the nauseating shock of seeing a dead body dragging itself across the pavement, dried intestines trailing behind it. Still, he can't quite bring himself to point out the obvious fact that they could come across more of them at any time. 

"It'll take too long."

He knows he's disappointing him. He doesn't need to look over at Paul to see it, so he doesn't. 

 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/30/2149, 14:51_

"A lifetime of deprivation, only seeing it vids and reading about it in books, never imagining that I'd ever have the chance to try it, and now that I'm finally on Earth, you're telling me _no_?"

The baleful glance Daryl shoots him tells him he's getting closer, finally. He actually looks _worried_ , for a moment, before his eyes narrow, seeing right through him. 

"Yup."

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/30/2149, 15:37_

"You didn't have any problem with me driving a fucking _space ship_." 

_Shit_ , this is ridiculous, Paul's actually _pouting_ now. 

He and Merle used to get in spats like this whenever they got stuck in a car for too long, but the idea of pullin' over to kiss Merle, just to get him to shut the hell up for a minute had never occurred to him. 

Daryl's brain rears up so sharply at the thought that he forgets what he means to say. Instead, he lands on, "Paul, man. You don't have a license."

"And you do? Is there even anyone around to care? _C'mon._ "

Daryl sighs through his nose, already sure that he's going to regret this. 

"Fine."

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/30/2149, 16:50_

 

"All right, just give it some gas."

Paul frowns. "We still have plenty of battery-"

"No, I mean, step on the pedal."

"I _am_."

But nothing's happening, except for Daryl, clearly trying not to laugh, and then the next thing he registers is his own head slamming back the seat as he switches his footing. After that, there's only the _speed_. 

He hears Daryl shouting, but suddenly they're off the road and driving on the grass and Daryl's shouting at him to take his foot off but everything's too fast and the whole car is _shaking_ ; it's all he can do to keep car clear of the rapidly approaching trees, the car's going _faster_ somehow and he doesn't know how to he's supposed to _stop_ it. 

"Hit the brakes!" Finally the words sink in, and the moves his foot, the car barely starting to slow before coming to an abrupt stop just a few feet short of a disturbingly large rock. 

Finally, they're still.

Daryl pinches the bridge of his nose, blinking at the grass in front of them where the road should be, before twisting to look out the back window. "You good?"

"I'm-" he laughs once, sharp and startled. "I'm fine. Sorry-"

"It's all right. Next time just don't press down so hard, ya gotta keep an eye on it." He takes a deep breath. "I'm gonna go make sure the car's all good, you just chill for a minute, all right?"

"Sure thing."

The car door swings shut, and Paul breathes, trying to rein in his pulse as he watches Daryl circumvent the car, eyes on the wheels, then crouching to look underneath. He does stop to stretch out his back, looking slightly pained, but by the time he's opening the driver's side door, he, too, seems calmer. 

"We should be good to go," he says, leaning on the frame and squinting at him. "You want to try again or call it a wash?"

"Not gonna get any better if I don't practice, right?"

"Cool. This time, we're gonna try the same thing, only backwards."

\--- 

Checking the battery- today or tomorrow they're going to need to leave it in the sun to regain a full charge- Daryl goes slow as he moves back around the front of the car, resolutely ignoring the rock embankment that could've just killed them both. Paul's still clearly shaken, but he listens carefully, repeating everything back to him before putting it reverse and taking his foot off the break. 

It takes a minute to figure out, but at his instruction, Paul twists to see behind them, easing them around the huge fallen tree limb, then pointing them back towards the road. 

It's all good, until Paul's turning around again and the heel of his hand presses into the car horn. The blaring noise is startling, but it still takes Paul a second to snatch his hand away. 

His betrayed expression has him laughing. "At least we know it works."

"Why's it so _loud_ , though?" Paul, slower to recover and clearly frustrated, shakes his head, and puts it in park. Then he heaves out a sigh and drags a hand over his face. "Give me a ship, any day."

"Ain't got a ship. But let's take a break, yeah?"

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/30/2149, 17:07_

Given Paul's abysmal performance, Daryl would be well within his rights to be giving him all sorts of shit right now, but instead, he seems hell bent on sitting on the edge of the road and telling him about each and every shrub and tree that they can see in the sunny, overgrown field across the way. For the most part, the distraction is working. 

It's nice out here, with the sun and the fresh air, even if half the plants Daryl's pointing out are allergens.

"But that shit over there, with the tails on top of them? _That's_ ragweed, worst of the bunch."

He's already pointed out the nettles, the hackberry and sumac trees. "The yellow ones?"

"I mean over there." Daryl taps him on the arm and points into the field. Paul can't really see the difference, but he's not eager to get closer, and anyway, mostly he's distracted by the way Daryl's balancing against his side. "The yellow stuff is goldenrod, I think. Not a problem, far as I know."

"At least _something_ down here isn't trying to kill me." He passes the water bottle back and wonders, not for the first time, how he knows all this. "Does everyone on Earth know this stuff or is it just you?"

"Spent a lot of time outside growing up."

"Hunting?"

Daryl takes a pull and sets it down between them. "For the most part. Got lost in the woods for a week when I was, like, ten. Started readin' up on plants an' shit after that."

"A _week?_ "

"Yeah. It wasn't so bad, 'cept for the itchy ass. Word to the wise, poison oak makes shitty toilet paper." 

Paul's eyebrows won't go any higher, but it's probably better than laughing

Smirking, Daryl passes him one of the carrots out of the bag, and twists to look the stand of trees behind them. "Ain't any round there that I can see, though, so you don't gotta look so worried."

"Wasn't what I was worried about," Paul points out. "Well, until _now_ , anyway."

They eat, watching the clouds move across the field for fifteen or twenty minutes before gathering up their things and heading- reluctantly, on Paul's part- back towards the car.

The only hint of Daryl's concern comes when he asks, "You wanna drive or should I?"

"I got it," Paul assures him, wanting to smile at him more than he's used to doing in daylight. "No surprises, this time."

\---

Paul gets the car in gear, eases onto the gas, and Daryl should've probably reminded him to check his blind spot before pulling out, but there's no traffic. Gradually, _slowly_ , they begin to move, staying in their lane as they creep up the hill. 

Cresting it, the've got a few of a small town out up ahead on the horizon, and fields for miles to the west. 

"Give it a bit more gas," he tells Paul, hypnotized by the shadow of clouds across the ground. "You doing all right?"

Paul nods, eyes on the road.

"Good," he says, watching the shadow's movement. "Just keep it steady."

Something about the shadow is _off_ , somehow. It takes a few minutes to realize that the clouds overhead aren't moving in the same direction. 

They're not sweeping towards them. And the shadow should extend across the slue, not condense along one side of it. 

"Hold up," he says, sitting forward.

"What?" Paul starts. "What did I-"

"Nothing. Just." Just people. Moving like animals. "Stop the car, he instructs, as calmly as he can, and when he sways with the motion, he points out Paul's window. " _Look_."

_Not_ people. Not anymore, anyway. 

"What are-" Paul's turned away, so he can't see his face, but the dread is audible. "Shit."

\--- 

"We need to switch out," Daryl says, getting out of the car; by the time Paul's figured out what he's talking about and set the brake, he's already standing by his door, eyes wider than they should be even though he's got his _back_ to them all. 

There's a pack- a full _herd_ , swarming across the ground, heading straight towards them. 

"C'mon," Daryl waves impatiently, watching him run around to the other side. But Paul gets it. There are hundreds of them, maybe even a thousand, and he _knows_ the two of them don't have the ammunition against a force that large. They need to get out of here. 

They're pulling forward before he's even got the car door shut; the backrest is solid against his back, though it's not much comfort at all. 

Daryl's got his eyes on the road, and all Paul can do is stare past him. He tries to focus, tries to make out where one ends and the other begins but they're still too far away- and not far enough- and the throng is too dense. And they're starting to turn, mirroring each other and tumbling in a sickening, waving roll. 

"They're following-"

" _'Course_ they are," Daryl grumbles, though he doesn't even look, just pushes the car faster. The zombies are hundreds of meters out, and slow, but in such large numbers, it doesn't even matter. Once the wave pushes out to the edges of the herd, they'll be converging on the road in no time. 

\--- 

_Fuck fuck fuck_ the zombies ain't quick, but they're closin' in close enough that the stink of them's getting' pulled in through the vents, and Daryl don't know what the fuck he's s'posed to be doin' but there's an overpass risin' up at the horizon, so he'll aim for that. 

"Check the ammo," he glances at Paul, finds him already doin' it. 

"What's the play, here?"

"We're gonna try to lose them." Hopefully the town ain't a warren of dead ends, there ain't no way to tell with the trees and the old train yard comin' up on the right as he pulls off the highway. Behind him, some of the zombies have already started spilling onto the road. "We lose them, and we get back on the road at the bridge up ahead- you got anything on the map?"

"I don't know, I don't-" setting the guns on the floor, he leans back to grab it from the pocket behind Daryl's seat and flips it open. "Where the hell _are_ we?"

Coming off the highway too fast, he risks a look. Paul's shaking his head as he scans the sheets, frowning, but it doesn't even matter. They're already coming up to a stop sign, which he blasts right through. 

Fuck, if there's people here-

-but it looks, so far, abandoned. He goes straight as long as he can before coming to a three-way intersection- no way forward thanks to the lake that's standing between them and the bridge up ahead. 

"Left or right?"

"I don't-" 

The zombies are coming from the southwest, so he tries to get some distance, well aware that they're heading onto town. The streets are going to get narrower, tighter. 

And a light on the dashboard's just started blinking orange.

" _Shit!_ "

"What?"

"Overtaxing the battery," he mutters, not wanting to guess how much the rough riding had drained the battery out loud. "Charge is getting low." He switches to gas, feeling it as the engine lurches and rumbles beneath them. The noise is _awful_. 

And loud enough, probably, that they could follow it easily. 

"We're gonna have to pull over," Paul says, before Daryl even has the chance to puzzle it through. Twisting in his seat again, he watches through the rear window. "They're not moving that fast. We might have a few minutes, could hide out somewhere."

"Just gonna be sittin' ducks."

"Got any better ideas?"

"Getting _away_ from them," Daryl rolls his eyes, even though he knows Paul's probably right. They've got to be swarming the highway by now. "Shit. Fuck, fine, keep an eye out for some place."

"What about that?"

Up ahead and on the left, there's a decorative fence framing sprawling estate full of apartment buildings, each one identical and monolithic enough to seem secure. They're coming up on the back side of it, the south facing windows are all small, but mostly intact, and he can't see open doors. 

"Turn up there," Paul says, so Daryl switches back to the battery, steering them carefully past a lot of long-parked cars. Getting around the first block of buildings, he can see that this place, though clearly abandoned had once been pretty nice. There's a playground, and a nearly empty pool behind more of that decorative iron fencing. 

The road curves around the park and past another building. Daryl follows the arrow pointing to _1800-1900_ and winds up in a cul-de-sac, with one driveway curving down underneath the building to a subterranean lot. 

Pressing the button on the garage opener control box does nothing; even if it's got battery backup, it's long since dead. The door itself is only wide enough for one vehicle to get through, so he might be able to get it open. 

Wedging his fingers underneath the dry, cracking weather stripping at the base, he tries to pull. Something creaks, but it doesn't budge; he calls back to Paul to search the trunk for a crowbar and tries again, first on one end and then the other, hoping to loosen it. 

Behind him, Paul's tearing the car apart, looking for anything that could give them some leverage. Behind _him_ , the slope of the driveway is too steep to see past the top of it. As much as he'd like to believe there's a chance that the zombies won't notice them down here, the herd's large enough to fill and entire field; odds are good their cover won't last long. Running up to the top just to see is a risk, but he's tempted. 

"Shit, I see them," Paul says, easing the trunk shut before running down to join them. He's got a small axe, which will have to do. It's solid enough at least, as he joins him by the door. Wedging it underneath, Paul has to adjust his angle a few times, but he's able to get it underneath enough that the door shifts. 

"How far?"

"Too close," Paul hands it over. "Try the other side."

Daryl does as he's told; at first, all he manages to do is bend the lower lip of the door, but then he shifts it over, and he's able to get it up an inch or so. From there, it's a matter of getting a good grip and pulling hard. 

The sound it makes as they haul it up is terrible, grinding and screeching and _loud_. But now that it's started, it's moving more easily.

"Soon as I got it at shoulder level, shove up." Daryl gets his knees underneath him to better meet the weight bearing down.

Another moment, and they've nearly got it. Paul counts to three, and they push up with as much force as they can. 

The door only goes up another few inches before crashing down again, fast and hard, only narrowly missing Daryl's foot on the way down. Catching his breath, the smell of a thousand corpses fills his lungs. And, skin crawling, he realizes that he can hear them coming. 

And Paul's _disappeared_.

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/30/2149, 18:35_

The strap catches- of _course_ it fucking does- leaving Paul wrestling with it as he stares out the rear window at the herd, their first scouts already closing in. Less than twenty feet away.

He'd known this was a stupid plan, he'd-

-one more jerk of the strap, and it comes free; he drags up to the front seat and out of the car. He's slamming the door shut- no sense wasting time for stealth now that they're already cutting off the drive and filling in the space above the concrete embankments. 

He'd figured it was a risk, he just hadn't known how _badly_ he's messed up until a body drops with a horrifying wet _crack_ on the pavement in front of him. Sure, they'd be cut off from their supplies and their weapons, but he'd be alive to miss them. He can hear Daryl shouting at him to, but it doesn't really register. 

Daryl's already wedging the axe underneath again by the time he joins him. A quick count of three is all the warning he gets before they're hauling at the base. 

The moment the door's cleared a few feet, Daryl wedges his knee underneath to bear its weight. "C'mon!"

Paul slings the packs underneath, throat tight. 

His idiocy can't be what gets Daryl killed, it just _can't_ \- he slings the packs underneath, tries to reset his grip. "you first."

"Fucking _go!_ "

It's the snagging at his hair that overrides his brain, sends him rolls underneath; he doesn't even get up from his crouch, using his knee to hold the opening. He's shouting with no idea what he's saying. 

Daryl's crawling on his elbows, body jerking as they attack; Paul watches, horrified, as he latches onto the axe and slips back, quick, like he's being _dragged_. 

He can hear the fighting, he can see more and more moldering feet against the door, all heading towards Daryl, and Paul _can't move_ , can't see, can't hear anything over the groaning, gnashing noise that's filled his head and-

-and Daryl's sliding through the opening, not even all the way through before he's shoving him _back_.

The door falls shut with a thundering slam, and for an instant it's just silent darkness. 

It takes a minute for the noise to set in. First it's his own breathing, and what he thinks might be Daryl's. Then it's a muffled sliding thud on the door, then another, then enough of it all together that the door starts to creak under the assault. 

His mouth doesn't work right the first time he tries. "Daryl?" Paul reaches out searchingly until he finds his shoulder, sensing more than seeing him nodding. It's so damned _dark_ in here; the only light getting through from outside is between the cracks and joints towards the top of the door. It's not going to hold forever. 

"We have to keep going." Daryl whispers, voice as tight as the knot of his shoulders as he rummages through his pack. "Flashlight."

It's all the warning he gets before being blinded.

It's only for a second, the beam skating off of him and then down. "Give me that," he says, _needing_ to check. Daryl'd only been out there alone for a second, but they'd been closing in and if they'd managed to get their hands on him. "You okay?"

Any relief he might've felt at Daryl's nod is undercut by the anger in his eyes and the ticking set of his jaw. It's bad enough that even if Paul weren't already grabbing the handguns out of his pockets, he'd be tempted to. 

"Yeah," he says icily, standing up. "Let's go."

The gun Paul's holding out for him isn't much of an olive branch, so the glare shouldn't cut this hard when he takes it.


	36. Chapter 36

_Wednesday, 10/30/2149, 18:40_

The main door into the apartment building is unlocked, though there's no bolt to throw back behind them; the hallway beyond is even darker. 

Paul follows Daryl past a dead elevator and get to the stairs, taking them up three flights, as high they'll go.

Paul shoulders the door open, but Daryl's the first one out. He's got his gun in his hand, and he uses it to point at the sign taped to the door. 

_By order of the national guard, all residents are required to evacuate the premises and report to the Greyhound Station between 3pm Sunday, 04/25/43. Management and caretakers will not be on site. For more information or to request assistance moving your family, please contact Allie Schreiber._

The contact information underneath is old, but it would be nice, Paul thinks, to have someone just an email or a phone call away. Not that he knows what he'd say. 

Daryl's already slipping quietly down the hall, all wary stealth as they listen for any sounds not their own. 

There's nothing, it's clear. And then Daryl stops at the first door, and ruins it by calling out. 

"Hello?"

There's no answer, and the door doesn't budge. There is, however, a window at the far end of the hallway, looking out at a rustling brown field- the dead are still coming, but Daryl doesn't seem to even notice. He moves on, tries the next door on the right.

The inside is clean, aside from the heap of mail on the counter, but it's not empty. There are chairs pushed in around a table, a small couch in front of a darkened screen. Underneath, the carpet goes all the way from one wall to the other. And there's a sliding glass door that takes up most of the right side of the room. 

While Daryl silently crosses to close the curtains most of the way, leaving only a slat at the end to peer out of, Paul forces his feet to move, and investigates further. There's the kitchen where they came in, a closet that had clearly been rifled through in a panic, a bathroom, and a bedroom. Here, he draws the shades nearly closed. From this angle, he can see that at least some of the zombies are getting snagged up at the fence, which will hopefully hold.

Not knowing what else to do, he sets his pack on the bed. 

"Probably want to make sure we keep the lights off," Daryl says from the doorway. 

Which is a lot better than what the dread pooled in his stomach has been telling him he'd say. But if Daryl's set on ignoring it for now, then Paul's not going to make it any worse by apologizing. Yet. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/30/2149, 19:20_

Paul's adamantly against goin' down to secure' the downstairs, which, given that they'd risk being seen or heard, and the risks the idiot's _already taken_ , ain't the worst position to take. Really, all they can do quietly and quickly is to tie the handles of the stairwell doors shut, binding them to doorknobs across the hall when that's all there is to work with. 

It won't hold forever, but it's what they got, and if Paul's not going to mention it, then Daryl won't, either. 

He don't really feel like sayin' shit, right now. 

Right now, they just gotta _wait_.

And he thinks he can do it- he used to be a hunter. He'd spent hours sitting still and quiet with a gun in his hand. But this is different. He'd never sat with his back against the door to prevent the deer from swarming in and attacking. He'd never had the time to think, in detail, about every fucking way they're cut off and surrounded, or how few bullets they've got on hand, or what's going to happen when it really starts getting _dark_.

He'd never watched Paul anxiously pacing a living room, clicking his safety off every two minutes, like maybe he's thinkin' that he'll have to use it on Daryl and honestly, right now, Daryl's all right with the warning. 

Because there's a vey real part of him that wants to grab hold and yell and _tell_ him how fucking stupid that stunt had been. 

One of those things'd had him by the _hair_. He'd had to watch as the zombie clawed at the back of Paul's head, snarling the strands and trying to grab on with fingers more dead than Daryl's own, and the fucker'd _argued_ with him. 

It'd been down to luck, nothing more. 

He takes a breath, holds it in until it hurts, until he's right back there, swinging the axe into already dead faces. And he lets it out.

There'd been an moment, there, barely more than an instant, where he'd almost been okay with it. Paul'd made it inside with the gear, the rest...

… at least Paul hadn't made him watch him die. 

But they could've waited them out. Maybe could've made it inside without being noticed. The zombies might've moved on, their empty brains none the wiser. 

And instead, they're still out there. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/30/2149, 20:42_

The sun's going down, and in the dark, they just look like people. 

Which only makes it worse. That there are _so many_ of them out there, and they're as trapped as sure as he and Daryl are. Monstrous and _wrong_ , they're stuck, too mindless to know anything at all, not even their own _existence_. They shouldn't be there- shouldn't _be_ , at _all_.

He knows their brains aren't working right- there would be talking and voices and screams coming from out there if they were. But he can't help wondering if they sense disappointment, or loss. If Daryl slipping through their fingers and under the garage door was something they were, in some small way, capable of registering as _bad_. He hopes they don't know their own existence, how monstrous they are, how _wrong_ it is to be that dead in a green world that's so damned _alive_. 

He hates looking at them, too. But he can't seem to stop.

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/30/2149, 22:00_

After an awkward, silent dinner of MREs that taste like the plastic they're wrapped in, Paul volunteers to take second watch and disappears into the bedroom. It's honestly a relief, up until Daryl registers the fact that it's probably more about avoidance than it is about exhaustion.

But it means that Daryl's free to wander the rest of the apartment in peace. Or would be, if he were able to tear himself from his spot by the window. 

He'd been ten or eleven when the die-off happened. Overnight, to hear his dad talk about it, though he hadn't really believed him until they went down to the lake that afternoon. Their usual fishin' spot wasn't anywhere near the main beach, but it hadn't mattered. Bass, trout, and carp were all crowding the shore, their discolored stinking bodies tanglin' in the reeds. It hadn't ever registered, really, how many fish were in the lake until they'd all been belly up. 

Right now, it's all he can do to gape out the window like a dead fish- _ha_ \- wonderin' where all these fuckin' bodies are coming from- if they're all local, or if they'd been roaming across the state, gatherin' up stragglers on the way. 

Maybe makin' more of them. 

_This ain't helping_. 

He takes a breath and lets it out, crossing over to the couch, determined to find something _worthwhile_ to do. He starts by pullin' everything out of his pack- inventory's not the worst idea right now, and as it stands right now, it's a jumbled mess that could cause more trouble down the line, so it's the best play. 

It doesn't take as much time as he'd like. Eventually, his pack is as secured and organized as it's going to be, except for the drawing of Paul, which he hadn't really noticed, even though he's been starin' at it for the past ten minutes. 

Funny, how it's easier to look when Paul ain't looking back. But the picture don't pull stupid stunts, or have any expectations, or need him to talk. Which means Daryl can't fuck things up by sayin' the wrong thing- he can think _that was too damned close_ as loudly as he wants to.

But the picture ain't moving, ain't the proof of life it had been for a minute there, and eventually staring at it when Paul's in the next room over just starts feelin' creepy. 

Still not as creepy as the horror show outside, though. He gets up to look to make sure it ain't somehow worse than it's been. 

They've gone quiet again, which is a whole different kind of disturbing. Instead of launching an all out attack, they're all just down there, brainlessly jostling like garbage caught up around a drain, waiting and inevitable. Paul might've been the one to catch their attention in the first place, but Daryl's the one who'd nailed the coffin shut and gotten them both trapped up here, and there's no doubt in his mind that they're going to be able to wait them both out. 

Even if it wasn't a matter of getting desperate and making a run for it, the zombies are close enough that if the virus is airborne, he and Paul probably already have it. They might just wind up dying of dehydration and turning right in here, if they don't get out and, _God_ , if he turns first...

He takes another breath. Holds it for a count of ten before exhaling. 

And maybe it clears his head a little, because it's occurring to him that if there are so many down underneath this window, that the other side of the building might be clear. 

He should get out and check, at least. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/30/2149, 22:39_

In the bedroom, it's dark and it's quiet. Not so much that Paul can ignore the occasional shuffling groan from outside, but enough that everything else in the building- every creak and footstep- seems amplified. 

Which is why he can hear it when the apartment door opens and closes. 

"Daryl?" He listens, carefully, holding himself halfway out of the too-soft bed until he's sure that no reply is coming, either from the dead or the living. 

For a minute, he just lets it sink in. He's alone in this apartment with hundreds of zombies outside that want to kill him. Daryl's gone off on his own, he's _left_ him, without giving Paul a chance to explain or apologize or fix things. 

It takes a few minutes for the fear and anger to get him up and dressed. He yanks hard on the bootlaces, cinching them on tight, and grabs the flashlight, careful to keep it pointed at the floor as he moves to follow as he fixes his grip on his gun. 

He grabs his pack as an afterthought that shouldn't be. With the luck they're having, the first aid kit might be needed. 

The hallway, at first glance, is empty, but his eyes have adjusted enough that the moonlight through the scant windows are enough to navigate by. The stairwell they'd come through is still tied shut, so he turns and heads the other way, following the corridor up to the corner, slow, steady, and quiet. 

He peers around carefully, and wants to be relieved when he spots Daryl, but he can't be. Not when he's like this- down on the floor again, head in his hands and his fingers threaded through his hair. His back's such a tight bowed line that it looks painful, even from here. 

He's quick to straighten up the moment he registers Paul's footsteps, though it's already too late. 

But Paul still owes him enough, he figures, to pretend he hasn't seen.

"Hey," Paul says, switching on the flashlight but keeping the beam low. "Just because I fucked up and took stupid risks doesn't mean you get to."

"Fuck you," Daryl drops his his head again, rubs at his face and moves to stand, then relents when Paul sits down next to him, knees bumping. "Just needed to check if the other side was clear. It ain't."

"You could've left a note."

Daryl's still not looking at him, but there's reddened dampness around his eyes. "Wasn't goin' far."

"Yeah, well, I can't do this without you. Tried that, and it sucked. So don't disappear like that again."

Something flashes in Daryl's eyes before he has the chance to avert them again. But his smirk has an edge to it. "Says the man who nearly got himself killed over a couple'a backpacks." 

He's been hanging on to that one all day, but it's a relief, so Paul lets it pass.

Daryl's here and he's safe. He just needs to figure out what to do about the rest of it. 

"How's your back doing?"

"Hurts."

It's not a surprise; he starts rummaging through his bag for painkillers, dragging allergy meds, a tarp, and three books out before finding the kit. "Want something for it?"

"Ain't that bad."

"Then here," Paul decides as his fingers brush against the bottle. 

Daryl twists off the cap and drinks down some of the rum, then passes it back; Paul follows suit, and leans back against the wall.

After a long moment, Daryl shifts; their shoulders are touching, nearly, and he's contending with a strong urge to press up against him even before Daryl says, "I'm sorry 'bout everything. Gettin' the gear was a good idea. It's just..."

"...too much of a risk?"

Daryl actually smiles at this. "Yeah. Fuckin' thought they had you for a second there."

"I know the feeling. I was there when they dragged you out, remember?"

"I _went_ back out."

"That's not what it looked like from the other side." He passes the bottle back to soften the blow, but Daryl's not quick to drink. Eventually, he mutters, "Yeah, well. Nobody died today, can we just go with that?"

It's funny, the way the last of the fight leaches out of his bones, like whiplash in reverse. 

When the bottle's passed back, already halfway to empty, Daryl's not as careful as he's been about avoiding his hand. So Paul shifts his grip, catching Daryl's fingers against the bottle, and squeezes. 

"Guess it counts for something."

He doesn't pull away, and Daryl doesn't, either, and that _awareness_ is back: he could close the scant remaining distance. He could kiss him right now and get away with it. 

But instead, Daryl's gaze lands on the top book of the pile. "What's that?"

"Huh?"

The book, it's cover dimly catching the beam of the flashlight. 

It's embarrassing, suddenly, because-

-he doesn't know why, but-

-Paul's not the kind of guy who's supposed to care about such things, but the cover's a little corny, at best. It's total trash, the kind he would've only ironically suggested for the RV's book club. It's _not_ the kind of thing he wants to be known for reading. 

At worst, it's completely damning- especially picture on the front cover- now that he thinks about it. 

"Found it in a library," he keeps his tone light, even when Daryl reaches over to pick it up. "Thought I'd have time to read it."

"Werewolves, huh?" Daryl chuckles. "Should've grabbed something about zombies."

"Might've actually gotten something useful out of it," he agrees, easily now that Daryl's already handing it back, mindlessly enough that the worst of the self-image mortification recedes. They're already sitting here like this, they've already _kissed_ , for crying out loud. It couldn't hurt-

"You know," he says, glancing over the cover like he hadn't spent hours staring at it, like he hadn't _grabbed_ it just because of the cover, "he actually kind of looks like you."

Daryl frowns and looks closer. 

"Huh," he says. Then, "I don't see it."

\--- 

_Wednesday, 10/30/2149, 23:03_

"...I mean yeah, but it gets the job done, don't it?"

"That's exactly it," Paul says, swatting him in the chest as he gestures for emphasis. "Night of the Living Dead, 28 Days, the rest of those movies. They _knew_ that shooting them in the head would work."

"Yeah. They're _zombies_." Daryl frowns, not tracking much beyond the fact that Paul's hand is still resting against his sternum as he points. It feels like they're back on the ship, half drunk and rambling, willfully distracting each other from the hell on the other side of the walls.

"I'm just saying. When they made all those movies, how did they _know_?"

"Makes sense, I guess. You shoot anything in the head, it's generally down for the count."

"But if they're _already_ dead, doesn't that mean that the brain is already offline?"

"So maybe the virus is just re-animating that part of the brain, then. And that's what you've got to take out."

"Okay, so which part of the brain?"

Daryl rolls his eyes. "I don't even know if they're seein', hearin', or smellin' us, so how-"

"I know, I know, I'm just wondering. For people to figure that out for the movies, the idea would've had to come from somewhere, right? So, was there, like, some sort of outbreak back in the 1900s or something where they figured it out so they could put it in the movies?"

_Ah_.

"A year ago, I would've said no, but now?" Daryl shrugs. "Fucked if I know." He takes another pull off the bottle, it's nearly halfway finished and the burn isn't as noticeable as it's been. "Same time, though. People had stories about people living on Mars before anyone ever made it as far as the moon."

"I'm just saying, it's just a little too on the nose."

"Shot to the chest might work too, but I ain't gonna test it." Daryl gives it some thought, then shakes his head. "Anyway, that ain't what we were talkin' about. What d'we do if we get separated?"

Paul nods. "Meet up at the car, but failing that... maybe the safest most obvious place we can find behind the herd, whichever direction they're moving in at the time? And whoever gets there first stays put and waits to be found."

"Sounds like a plan," Daryl says, already wondering if that's a promise he's able to rightly make. 

When he glances over, Paul's got a skeptical look on his face that says he already knows. But he doesn't dig in on it, he just sighs, relaxing into his side a bit more. "Probably best if we don't get separated in the first place."

"Yeah." 

He can practically hear the grin, he knows what he's just walked into, even before Paul says, "Which means no more wandering off in the middle of the fucking night, all right?"

" _Said_ I was sorry." He rolls his eyes to look at him, somehow startled at how _close_ he already is, as if he hasn't been acutely aware of it for the past half hour. But he's not so far gone that he can't turn it around. "No more dumbass stunts. _Either_ of us."

" _Deal_ ," Paul says, just as sharply, before suddenly looking frustrated.

"What?"

Pauls eyes close for a second, but when they reopen, steel's replaced the humor, and he snorts. "I dunno, I just really want to fucking kiss you right now."

It's the annoyance that gets him, because _yeah_ , he _gets_ it, but he ain't sure how to respond. Best he can manage is getting his hand up on the side of Paul's neck to find him already leaning in. 

Paul's mid-sigh when their mouths connect and Daryl can't breathe at all; he's too busy trying to figure out whose pulse he's feeling in his wrist- thready and wild- as they somehow manage to wrangle themselves closer. He loses track when Paul's bony knee presses the knuckles of his good hand into the commercial-grade carpet. Before the discomfort can register, Paul's crawling up to swing the offending knee over Daryl's lap.

He's looking up at him now, though with all of Paul's hair hanging in his face, there ain't nothin' to see, so he gives up on trying, easy as anything, and when he turns his head, changing the angle, it's _so_ much better. It's instinct to steady Paul's hips with the heels of his hands. 

Paul ain't havin' such an easy time of it, like every point of contact's got him worried, and Daryl's just so fuckin' _done_ with worryin' right now that he's probably gonna say somethin' too sharp when they stop to breathe. But the moment they do, he's too busy gasping for air. 

Paul's wight shifts, but doesn't break free, and there's just enough light through the window to see that he's grinning down at him. 

Daryl doesn't mean to let his head thud back against the wall as hard as it does. 

In the silence of the building, it rings out like a gunshot, and he freezes, trying to listen, watching Paul twists to look anxiously down the hallway. 

There's only a little more noise from outside- some sense of renewed interest that he ain't sure he's imagining- but he'd have to get up to confirm it. 

There's no breaking of glass, no splintering of wood down below, but yeah. They're trying again. So they _need_ to get up. 

Paul's presses his forehead against Daryl's, huffs out a whispered laugh. "God damn it." 

"Sorry."

"Raincheck?"

"Yeah."


	37. Chapter 37

_Thursday, 10/31/2149, 08:19_

Paul has no idea when he'd fallen asleep, or what time it is when he wakes, but the sun is up, the sky is blue, and he's not as surprised about that as he used to be. The sight of the zombies- lumbering away now, not as quickly as he'd like- is still another matter entirely. 

So much for keeping a lookout. 

He lets the curtain fall shut and moves quietly, gathering his things and poking his head into the bedroom where Daryl's just starting to wake up. 

"They're clearing out, I'm gonna hit the head," he says to the pile of sheets Daryl's burrowed into. "Back in a few."

Daryl mumbles something incoherent in response, so Paul leaves him be. Grabbing his pack, he leaves the door to the hallway open, and makes his way to the next apartment down the hallway. 

He contemplates the flush lever as he relieves himself, trying to guess at how far away the herd has to be before they're out of hearing range. This place has been abandoned so long, there might not be enough pressure in the pipes to even function- or there might be enough to make one hell of a racket. 

Hopefully, they'll be moving on soon enough that it won't matter. But if he and Daryl are stuck here much longer, testing the plumbing wouldn't be the worst idea. 

For now, though, he strips down, using his water bottle to dampen a rag to himself off as best he can, then sees to his teeth and hair as he air dries. 

His attention- what little there is of it, as half-awake as he is- snags on the bottles lined up on the shelf. Whoever'd lived here had been well stocked in terms of personal hygiene, but they'd left an awful lot behind. There are four different kinds of lotion- including a special one for feet- and two different kinds of soap. The mouthwash has been sitting there so long that it seems to be eating through the plastic bottle, and the deodorant's gone rock hard, but the toothpaste seems okay; this, he drops into his bag. 

Whoever had lived here had either left in a hurry, or simply hadn't ever made it back. For all he knows, they could be out in the herd right now. 

Forcing the thought from his mind, he winds up staring at his reflection, not particularly liking what he sees. The previous tenant had painted the living room walls green; the ambient light coming in through the open door might be why he looks so wrung out. And it doesn't seem like he's been down here long enough to lose as much weight as he's seemed to. The shadows under his eyes, at least, have been familiar for months. One of these days, he either needs to get serious about shaving or just pretend like the beard is a deliberate stylistic choice. 

It's only now that he's realizing how vain he must've been, back before the world- _worlds_ \- went to hell. He might never have been one to collect skin care products, but the reflection staring back at him isn't wearing the kind of look he'd imagine anyone being attracted to. Not that Daryl's just anyone, and not that he'd probably be one to say anything. But _he_ , at least, has always made the roughed up and careworn look good. 

Eventually, the sound of Daryl moving around next door snaps him out of his shallow reveries, so he gets dressed again. 

It's a little surprising that Daryl notices him at all, with his eyes at half mast, but he pauses just long enough that Paul starts to think, fast, about how he's supposed to be acting. 

They'd kissed for what had felt like hours just around the corner, and then again, more quickly, in the apartment when Daryl'd turned in, but it's daylight, now, and there's nowhere to hide. 

Daryl, though, doesn't look like the thought's even occurred to him. "They're heading east, should be clear in another hour or so," he says around a yawn. "Figure we'll wait a bit before getting the car out to charge." 

Paul nods, pretending like he hadn't forgotten about it completely, and forces his brain to start actually _functioning_. "You get cleaned up, I'll get out the camp stove and we can find out how stale that coffee in the cabinet is. Sound good?"

"Fuck yeah," Daryl grins all the way to his eyes, surprisingly alert, and Paul can _see_ the moment when his brain catches up to him; he sort of freezes. "Sounds genius."

"Of course it does," Paul jokes, intent on crowding out the impending awkwardness, the inevitable second guessing that's already wasted so much of their time. "Who do you think you're talking to?"

Before Daryl can respond, he leans over, pecks him on the cheek, and carries on down the hallway before either of them have the chance to say something well intentioned and stupid.

\---

_Thursday, 10/31/2149, 10:30_

They'd checked every window they could find, but the air wafting through underneath the garage door still stinks enough that opening it, while easier than before is a slow, careful, nerve wracking process. As soon as it's seated in its track overhead, Paul creeps up the drive to take a look around while Daryl sees to the car. 

"Still clear," Paul reports a moment later, coming back inside to hover next to the open door. "Grass is all trampled, though."

It'll bounce back, not that Daryl gives a shit about the overgrown lawns of absent yuppies; he's more concerned about figuring out how to tell Paul to stand clear of the door without coming off like a total asshole. 

The car starts on the second try, and has enough juice left in it to back it up to the top of the drive. Another hour or so in the sun ought to charge it up enough to get them moving without worrying that they won't be able to outrun whatever might be out there, as long as the ancient battery holds manages to hold the charge. 

Even so, Daryl dawdles over the engine for a while while Paul keeps watch up top. Either the smell's abated, or they've gotten used to it. It beats going upstairs, where there's nothing to do besides pack and repack their gear while pretending that he's got any kind of clue what Paul expects him to be doing. 

But inevitably, Paul gets bored. "Let's head back in, give it some time to juice up."

_Thursday, 10/31/2149, 12:55_

Despite his best intentions, the morning had gotten awkward. As soon as they'd gone back up into the apartment, there'd been nothing to occupy themselves with. No distractions against the inevitable morning-after _now what_ that they were both pretending to ignore. 

But it hadn't been _bad_ , just quiet, almost content. 

Just not so much so that Paul'd had any confidence in the idea of backing him up against the wall and finding out how much it would take to kiss him senseless. Not even when Daryl'd come out from spelunking in the cupboards with sugar for their disgusting, bitter coffee, and joined him out on the small shaded patio. 

They'd caught the tail end of the herd disappearing out to the east- Daryl'd broken the silence to comment that it looked to be a mile and a half out. From there, at least, Paul had at least been able to drudge up a tangent about planetary curve and measurement. 

He'd been going for neutral. And even as they'd eventually decided that the coast wasn't going to get any more clear, and had gathered up their things, he'd just figured he'd bored Daryl into a light coma. He hadn't even tried to argue when Paul announced that he'd be taking the wheel. 

Instead, once they'd cleared the edge of town, Daryl'd only lasted an hour before picking an argument with the entire world.

"-and if it weren't for that bunch of bullshit- money grubbing assholes poisoning the ground- I think people might've been able to turn shit around, but now look at this place." Daryl huffs, glaring out the passenger side window at the object of his bored rambling. "It's a fuckin' _wasteland_. Like we got space ships that can cross the damned universe, and we still got people out here scavenging like rats."

"Uh huh," Paul nods, not wanting to interrupt or laugh, in case he's missing the point, lest it tip the balance they've both been working on maintaining all morning. It's all been starting to wash over him as he sits here, eyes on the road, keeping the car steady. 

Daryl's not the first person Paul's kissed. He's not even the first guy he's fallen for. 

But he's the first guy to throw his head back against the seat, swivel his head to look at him, and say, "Seriously. Wish you could've seen it before. Was probably too late by then anyway, but at least people still lived like _people_. You would've gotten a kick out of it."

And that's when it finally happens, when it finally _clicks_. 

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and Daryl's in the middle of ranting about long dead politicians and the choices people'd let them make, and the thought crashes into him like a satellite crashing out of orbit: he's in love with Daryl. 

It's not just that, though. There's no miserable pit coiled up in the middle of his chest, no dread. Just this weird solid _calm_ that comes with the realization that, no, _actually_ , he loves him. 

But his brain's his brain- for all that he's apparently known this, it's the first time he's _realized_ it, and all his air-strapped lungs will let him say out loud is, "It's green, and there's _air_. Still beats a lot of places." And if his voice comes across strangled, at least it'll sound like he's trying to be diplomatic, and not on the verge of staking claims and taking liberties. 

Because his first instincts, honestly, are to get out of the car and _run_ , just so he can let the realization settle in. He needs a minute to square it up before he presents it for any sort of review. 

"Yeah, but there were _museums_ ," Daryl argues petulantly, unaware of all of this. "Theaters and malls and all sorts of shit. Might not have given a damn about them back then, but... just seems stupid, like I'm draggin' you all the way 'cross the known universe just to show you the end of fucking days."

"Yeah, well, if we weren't doing this, we'd be seeing it anyway," he says, clawing his way back up onto the thread. "And there'd be nothing we could do about it. But... like I said, at least you can breathe the air down here. And it can't be this bad everywhere, right? I mean, we've passed cities..."

Daryl frowns, like he's turning it over in his head. "Yeah."

"Which means there's hope, right?" Because there _is_ , it's bubbling under his skin maddeningly that he's forgetting himself. "So at some point, once we've done what we came here to do, you have a chance in hell of taking me on a proper date."

Daryl rolls his eyes so hard that Paul nearly misses his "yeah, whenever you want," under the sound of his own laughter.


End file.
